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OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 
EDWARD  WILLIAM  THOMSON 


Old  Man  Savarin 
Stories 

Tales  of  Canada  and  Canadians 


BY 

EDWARD  WILLIAM  THOMSON 

F.R.S.L.  (United  Kingdom) 


F.R.S.  (Canada) 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
CHARLES  W.  JEFFERYS 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO 

SIR  A.  T.  QUILLER-COUCH 

WHO 

"GAVE  ME  THE  GOOD  WORD" 
IN  SEASON 


I  VE  A  FRIEND  OVER  THE  SEA 


My  thanks  are  here  due  to  Messrs.  T.  Y.  Crowell 
&  Co.,  N.  Y.,  for  liberty  to  include  in  this  volume  sundry 
stories  from  "Old  Man  Savarin";  to  the  American  Bap- 
tist Publication  Society,  Philadelphia,  for  liberty  to  in- 
clude "Dour  Davie's  Drive,"  and  "Petherick's  Peril"; 
to  the  University  Magazine,  Montreal,  for  liberty  to  in- 
clude "Miss  Minnely's  Management";  to  the  Century 
Company,  N.  Y.,  for  liberty  to  include  "The  Swartz 
Diamond." 

E.  W.  THOMSON 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CANADIAN  ABROAD xiv 

PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS 15 

THE  WATERLOO  VETERAN 28 

JOHN  BEDELL,  U.E.  LOYALIST 38 

OLD  MAN  SAVARIN 54 

GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT 72 

MCGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT 90 

SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD 108 

DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE 121 

PETHERICK'S  PERIL 139 

LITTLE  BAPTISTE 158 

RED-HEADED  WINDEGO 180 

THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT 197 

"DRAFTED" 215 

A  TURKEY  APIECE 235 

THE  SWARTZ  DIAMOND 252 

Boss  OF  THE  WORLD 283 

Miss  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT.  .  .  313 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR Frontispiece 

PAGE 
HE  KNOCKED  THE  TWO  OF  THEM  OVER  WITH  THE 

POST 24 

OLD  JOHN  MARCHED  IN  FULL  REGIMENTALS 34 

DEY'S  FIGHT  LIKE  DAT  FOR  MORE  AS  FOUR  HOURS .     60 
WE  STOOD  LOOKING  AT  MY  FATHER'S  WHITE  FACE..     86 

MY  LEG  IS  BROKE 130 

BACK  AND  FORWARD  THEY  DASHED 144 

BAPTISTE  AND  JAWNNY  LOOKED  AT  THE  PLACE  IN 
THE  WILDEST  TERROR 190 

ABSALOM  SPRANG  UP,  STAGGERED,  SHOUTED 210 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN  STORIES 


THE  CANADIAN  ABROAD 

When  the  croon  of  a  rapid  is  heard  on  the 
breeze, 

With  the  scent  of  a  pine-forest  gloom, 
Or  the  edge  of  the  sky  is  of  steeple-top  trees, 

Set  in  hazes  of  blueberry  bloom, 
Or  a  song-sparrow  sudden  from  quietness  trills 

His  delicate  anthem  to  me, 
Then  my  heart  hurries  home  to  the  Ottawa 
hills, 

Wherever  I  happen  to  be. 

When  the  veils  of  a  shining  lake  vista  unfold, 

Or  the  mist  towers  dim  from  a  fall, 
Or  a  woodland  is  blazing  in  crimson  and  gold, 

Or  a  snow-shroud  is  covering  all, 
Or  there's  honking  of  geese  in  the  darkening 
sky, 

When  the  spring  sets  hepatica  free, 
Then  my  heart's  winging  north  as  they  never 
can  fly, 

Wherever  I  happen  to  be. 

When  the  swallows  slant  curves  of  bewildering 


As  the  cool  of  the  twilight  descends, 
And  rosy-cheek  maiden  and  hazel-hue  boy 

Listen  grave  while  the  Angelus  ends 
In  a  tremulous  flow  from  the  bell  of  a  shrine, 

Then  a  faraway  mountain  I  see, 
And  my  soul  is  in  Canada's  evening  shine, 

Wherever  my  body  may  be. 


PRIVILEGE  OF  THE  LIMITS 

"YES,  indeed,  my  grandfather  wass  once  in 
jail,"  said  old  Mrs.  McTavish,  of  the  county 
of  Glengarry,  in  Ontario,  Canada;  "but  that 
wass  for  debt,  and  he  wass  a  ferry  honest  man 
whateff er,  and  he  would  not  broke  his  promise 
— no,  not  for  all  the  money  in  Canada.  If  you 
will  listen  to  me,  I  will  tell  chust  exactly  the 
true  story  about  that  debt,  to  show  you  what 
an  honest  man  my  grandfather  wass. 

"One  time  Tougal  Stewart,  him  that  wass 
the  poy's  grandfather  that  keeps  the  same  store 
in  Cornwall  to  this  day,  sold  a  plough  to  my 
grandfather,  and  my  grandfather  said  he 
would  pay  half  the  plough  in  October,  and  the 
other  half  whateffer  time  he  felt  able  to  pay 
the  money.  Yes,  indeed,  that  was  the  very 
promise  my  grandfather  gave. 

"So  he  was  at  Tougal  Stewart's  store  on  the 
first  of  October  early  in  the  morning  pef  ore  the 
shutters  wass  taken  off,  and  he  paid  half  chust 
exactly  to  keep  his  word.  Then  the  crop  wass 

15 


16  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

ferry  pad  next  year,  and  the  year  after  that 
one  of  his  horses  wass  killed  py  lightning,  and 
the  next  year  his  brother,  that  wass  not  rich 
and  had  a  big  family,  died,  and  do  you  think 
wass  my  grandfather  to  let  the  family  be  dis- 
graced without  a  good  funeral?  No,  indeed. 
So  my  grandfather  paid  for  the  funeral,  and 
there  was  at  it  plenty  of  meat  and  drink  for 
eferypody,  as  wass  the  right  Hielan'  custom 
those  days;  and  after  the  funeral  my  grand- 
father did  not  feel  chust  exactly  able  to  pay 
the  other  half  for  the  plough  that  year  either. 

"So,  then,  Tougal  Stewart  met  my  grand- 
father in  Cornwall  next  day  after  the  funeral, 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  some  money  to  spare. 
'Wass  you  in  need  of  help,  Mr.  Stewart?' 
says  my  grandfather,  kindly.  'For  if  it's  in 
any  want  you  are,  Tougal/  says  my  grand- 
father, 'I  will  sell  the  coat  off  my  back,  if  there 
is  no  other  way  to  lend  you  a  loan';  for  that 
wass  always  the  way  of  my  grandfather  with 
all  his  friends,  and  a  bigger-hearted  man  there 
never  wass  in  all  Glengarry,  or  in  Stormont, 
or  in  Dundas,  moreofer. 

'  'In  want !'  says  Tougal — 'in  want,  Mr. 
McTavish!'  says  he,  very  high.  'Would  you 
wish  to  insult  a  gentleman,  and  him  of  the 


PRIVILEGE   OF   THE   LIMITS  17 

name  of  Stewart,  that's  the  name  of  princes 
of  the  world?'  he  said,  so  he  did. 

"Seeing  Tougal  had  his  temper  up,  my 
grandfather  spoke  softly,  being  a  quiet,  peace- 
able man,  and  in  wonder  what  he  had  said  to 
offend  Tougal. 

'  'Mr.  Stewart,'  says  my  grandfather,  'it 
wass  not  in  my  mind  to  anger  you  whatefer. 
Only  I  thought,  from  your  asking  me  if  I 
had  some  money,  that  you  might  be  looking 
for  a  wee  bit  of  a  loan,  as  many  a  gentleman 
has  to  do  at  times,  and  no  shame  to  him  at 
all,'  said  my  grandfather. 

'  'A  loan  ?'  says  Tougal,  sneering.  'A  loan, 
is  it?  Where's  your  memory,  Mr.  McTavish? 
Are  you  not  owing  me  half  the  price  of  the 
plough  you've  had  these  three  years?' 

'  'And  wass  you  asking  me  for  money  for 
the  other  half  of  the  plough?'  says  my  grand- 
father, very  astonished. 

'  'Just  that,'  says  Tougal. 

'  'Have  you  no  shame  or  honor  in  you?' 
says  my  grandfather,  firing  up.  'How  could  I 
feel  able  to  pay  that  now,  and  me  chust  yester- 
day been  giving  my  poor  brother  a  funeral  fit 
for  the  McTavishes'  own  grand-nephew,  that 
wass  as  good  chentleman's  plood  as  any 


18  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Stewart  in  Glengarry.  You  saw  the  expense 
I  wass  at,  for  there  you  wass,  and  I  thank  you 
for  the  politeness  of  coming,  Mr.  Stewart,' 
says  my  grandfather,  ending  mild,  for  the 
anger  would  never  stay  in  him  more  than  a 
minute,  so  kind  was  the  nature  he  had. 

"  'If  you  can  spend  money  on  a  funeral  like 
that,  you  can  pay  me  for  my  plough/  says 
Stewart;  for  with  buying  and  selling  he  wass 
become  a  poor  creature,  and  the  heart  of  a 
Hielan'man  wass  half  gone  out  of  him,  for  all 
he  wass  so  proud  of  his  name  of  monarchs  and 
kings. 

"My  grandfather  had  a  mind  to  strike  him 
down  on  the  spot,  so  he  often  said;  but  he 
thought  of  the  time  when  he  hit  Hamish 
Cochrane  in  anger,  and  he  minded  the  pen- 
ances the  priest  put  on  him  for  breaking  the 
silly  man's  jaw  with  that  blow,  so  he  smothered 
the  heat  that  wass  in  him,  and  turned  away 
in  scorn.  With  that  Tougal  Stewart  went  to 
court,  and  sued  my  grandfather,  puir  mean 
creature. 

"You  might  think  that  Judge  Jones — him 
that  wass  judge  in  Cornwall  before  Judge 
Jarvis  that's  dead — would  do  justice.  But  no, 
.he  made  it  the  law  that  my  grandfather  must 


PRIVILEGE   OF  THE   LIMITS  19 

pay  at  once,  though  Tougal  Stewart  could  not 
deny  what  the  bargain  wass. 

'Your  Honor,'  says  my  grandfather,  'I 
said  I'd  pay  when  I  felt  able.  And  do  I  feel 
able  now?  No,  I  do  not,'  says  he.  It's  a  dis- 
grace to  Tougal  Stewart  to  ask  me,  and  him- 
self telling  you  what  the  bargain  wass,'  said 
my  grandfather.  But  Judge  Jones  said  that 
he  must  pay,  for  all  that  he  did  not  feel  able. 

'  'I  will  nefer  pay  one  copper  till  I  feel 
able,'  says  my  grandfather;  'but  I'll  keep  my 
Hielan'  promise  to  my  dying  day,  as  I  always 
done,'  says  he. 

"And  with  that  the  old  judge  laughed,  and 
said  he  would  have  to  give  judgment.  And  so 
he  did ;  and  after  that  Tougal  Stewart  got  out 
an  execution.  But  not  the  worth  of  a  handful 
of  oatmeal  could  the  bailiff  lay  hands  on,  be- 
cause my  grandfather  had  chust  exactly  taken 
the  precaution  to  give  a  bill  of  sale  on  his  gear 
to  his  neighbor,  Alexander  Frazer,  that  could 
be  trusted  to  do  what  was  right  after  the  law 
play  was  over. 

"The  whole  settlement  had  great  contempt 
for  Tougal  Stewart's  conduct;  but  he  wass  a 
headstrong  body,  and  once  he  begun  to  do 
wrong  against  my  grandfather,  he  held  on,  for 


20  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STOEIES 

all  that  his  trade  fell  away ;  and  finally  he  had 
my  grandfather  arrested  for  debt,  though 
you'll  understand,  sir,  that  he  was  owing 
Stewart  nothing  that  he  ought  to  pay  when  he 
didn't  feel  able. 

"In  those  times  prisoners  for  debt  wass  taken 
to  jail  in  Cornwall,  and  if  they  had  friends  to 
give  bail  that  they  would  not  go  beyond  the 
posts  that  wass  around  the  sixteen  acres  nearest 
the  jail  walls,  the  prisoners  could  go  where  they 
liked  on  that  ground.  This  was  called  'the 
privilege  of  the  limits.'  The  limits,  you'll 
understand,  wass  marked  by  cedar  posts 
painted  white  about  the  size  of  hitching-posts. 

"The  whole  settlement  wass  ready  to  go  bail 
for  my  grandfather  if  he  wanted  it,  and  for  the 
health  of  him  he  needed  to  be  in  the  open  air, 
and  so  he  gave  Tuncan  Macdonnell  of  the 
Greenfields,  and  ^Eneas  Macdonald  of  the 
Sandfields,  for  his  bail,  and  he  promised,  on 
his  Hielan'  word  of  honor,  not  to  go  beyond 
the  posts.  With  that  he  went  where  he  pleased, 
only  taking  care  that  he  never  put  even  the 
toe  of  his  foot  beyond  a  post,  for  all  that  some 
prisoners  of  the  limits  would  chump  ofer  them 
and  back  again,  or  maybe  swing  round  them, 
holding  by  their  hands. 


PRIVILEGE   OF   THE   LIMITS  21 

"Efery  day  the  neighbors  would  go  into 
Cornwall  to  give  my  grandfather  the  good 
word,  and  they  would  offer  to  pay  Tougal 
Stewart  for  the  other  half  of  the  plough,  only 
that  vexed  my  grandfather,  for  he  wass  too 
proud  to  borrow,  and,  of  course,  every  day 
he  felt  less  and  less  able  to  pay  on  account  of 
him  having  to  hire  a  man  to  be  doing  the 
spring  ploughing  and  seeding  and  making  the 
kale-yard. 

"All  this  time,  you'll  mind,  Tougal  Stewart 
had  to  pay  five  shillings  a  week  for  my  grand- 
father's keep,  the  law  being  so  that  if  the 
debtor  swore  he  had  not  five  pounds'  worth  of 
property  to  his  name,  then  the  creditor  had  to 
pay  the  five  shillings,  and,  of  course,  my  grand- 
father had  nothing  to  his  name  after  he  gave 
the  bill  of  sale  to  Alexander  Frazer.  A  great 
diversion  it  was  to  my  grandfather  to  be 
reckoning  up  that  if  he  lived  as  long  as  his 
father,  that  was  hale  and  strong  at  ninety-six, 
Tougal  would  need  to  pay  five  or  six  hundred 
pounds  for  him,  and  there  was  only  two  pound 
five  shillings  to  be  paid  on  the  plough. 

"So  it  was  like  that  all  summer,  my  grand- 
father keeping  heartsome,  with  the  neighbors 
coming  in  so  steady  to  bring  him  the  news  of 


22  OLD    MAN    SAVAKIN    STORIES 

the  settlement.  There  he  would  sit,  just  inside 
one  of  the  posts,  for  to  pass  his  jokes,  and  tell 
what  he  wished  the  family  to  be  doing  next. 
This  way  it  might  have  kept  going  on  for 
forty  years,  only  it  came  about  that  my  grand- 
father's youngest  child — him  that  was  my 
father — fell  sick,  and  seemed  like  to  die. 

"Well,  when  my  grandfather  heard  that  bad 
news,  he  wass  in  a  terrible  way,  to  be  sure,  for 
he  would  be  longing  to  hold  the  child  in  his 
arms,  so  that  his  heart  was  sore  and  like  to 
break.  Eat  he  could  not,  sleep  he  could  not: 
all  night  he  would  be  groaning,  and  all  day  he 
would  be  walking  around  by  the  posts,  wishing 
that  he  had  not  passed  his  Hielan'  word  of 
honor  not  to  go  beyond  a  post ;  for  he  thought 
how  he  could  have  broken  out  like  a  chentle- 
man,  and  gone  to  see  his  sick  child,  if  he  had 
stayed  inside  the  jail  wall.  So  it  went  on  three 
days  and  three  nights  pefore  the  wise  thought 
came  into  my  grandfather's  head  to  show  him 
how  he  need  not  go  beyond  the  posts  to  see  his 
little  sick  poy.  With  that  he  went  straight  to 
one  of  the  white  cedar  posts,  and  pulled  it  up 
out  of  the  hole,  and  started  for  home,  taking 
great  care  to  carry  it  in  his  hands  pefore  him, 
so  he  would  not  be  beyond  it  one  bit. 


PRIVILEGE   OF   THE   LIMITS  23 

"My  grandfather  wass  not  half  a  mile  out  of 
Cornwall,  which  was  only  a  little  place  in  those 
days,  when  two  of  the  turnkeys  came  after  him. 

"  'Stop,  Mr.  McTavish,'  says  the  turnkeys. 

"  'What  for  would  I  stop?'  says  my  grand- 
father. 

"  'You  have  broke  your  bail/  says  they. 

"  'It's  a  lie  for  you,'  says  my  grandfather, 
for  his  temper  flared  up  for  anybody  to  say 
he  would  broke  his  bail.  'Am  I  beyond  the 
post  ?'  says  my  grandfather. 

"With  that  they  run  in  on  him,  only  that  he 
knocked  the  two  of  them  over  with  the  post, 
and  went  on  rejoicing,  like  an  honest  man 
should,  at  keeping  his  word  and  overcoming 
them  that  would  slander  his  good  name.  The 
only  thing  pesides  thoughts  of  the  child  that 
troubled  him  was  questioning  whether  he  had 
been  strictly  right  in  turning  round  for  to  use 
the  post  to  defend  himself  in  such  a  way  that 
it  was  nearer  the  jail  than  what  he  wass.  But 
when  he  remembered  how  the  jailer  never  com- 
plained of  prisoners  of  the  limits  chumping 
ofer  the  posts,  if  so  they  chumped  back  again 
in  a  moment,  the  trouble  went  out  of  his 
mind. 

"Pretty   soon   after  that  he  met   Tuncan 


24  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Macdonnell  of  Greenfields,  coming  into  Corn- 
wall with  the  wagon. 

"  'And  how  is  this,  Glengatchie  ?'  says  Tun- 
can.  'For  you  were  never  the  man  to  broke 
your  bail.' 

"Glengatchie,  you'll  understand,  sir,  is  the 
name  of  my  grandfather's  farm. 

"  'Never  fear,  Greenfields,'  says  my  grand- 
father, 'for  I'm  not  beyond  the  post.' 

"So  Greenfields  looked  at  the  post,  and  he 
looked  at  my  grandfather,  and  he  scratched  his 
head  a  wee,  and  he  seen  it  was  so;  and  then 
he  fell  into  a  great  admiration  entirely. 

'  'Get  in  with  me,  Glengatchie — it's  proud 
I'll  be  to  carry  you  home';  and  he  turned  his 
team  around.  My  grandfather  did  so,  taking 
great  care  to  keep  the  post  in  front  of  him  all 
the  time ;  and  that  way  he  reached  home.  Out 
comes  my  grandmother  running  to  embrace 
him;  but  she  had  to  throw  her  arms  around 
the  post  and  my  grandfather's  neck  at  the  same 
time,  he  was  that  strict  to  be  within  his  promise. 
Pefore  going  ben  the  house,  he  went  to  the 
back  end  of  the  kale-yard  which  was  farthest 
from  the  jail,  and  there  he  stuck  the  post;  and 
then  he  went  back  to  see  his  sick  child,  while 
all  the  neighbors  that  came  round  was  glad  to 


HE  KNOCKED  THE  TWO  OK  THEM  OVER 
WITH  THE  POST 


PRIVILEGE   OF   THE   LIMITS  25 

see  what  a  wise  thought  the  saints  had  put  into 
his  mind  to  save  his  bail  and  his  promise. 

"So  there  he  stayed  a  week  till  my  father  got 
well.  Of  course  the  constables  came  after  my 
grandfather,  but  the  settlement  would  not  let 
the  creatures  come  within  a  mile  of  Glen- 
gatchie.  You  might  think,  sir,  that  my  grand- 
father would  have  stayed  with  his  wife  and 
weans,  seeing  the  post  was  all  the  time  in  the 
kale-yard,  and  him  careful  not  to  go  beyond 
it ;  but  he  was  putting  the  settlement  to  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  day  and  night  to  keep  the  con- 
stables off,  and  he  was  fearful  that  they  might 
take  the  post  away,  if  ever  they  got  to  Glen- 
gatchie,  and  give  him  the  name  of  false,  that 
no  McTavish  ever  had.  So  Tuncan  Green- 
fields and  ^Eneas  Sandfield  drove  my  grand- 
father back  to  the  jail,  him  with  the  post  behind 
him  in  the  wagon,  so  as  he  would  be  between 
it  and  the  jail.  Of  course  Tougal  Stewart 
tried  his  best  to  have  the  bail  declared  for- 
feited ;  but  old  Judge  Jones  only  laughed,  and 
said  my  grandfather  was  a  Hielan'  gentleman, 
with  a  very  nice  sense  of  honor,  and  that  was 
chust  exactly  the  truth. 

"How  did  my  grandfather  get  free  in  the 
end?  Oh,  then,  that  was  because  of  Tougal 


26  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Stewart  being  careless — him  that  thought  he 
knew  so  much  of  the  law.  The  law  was,  you 
will  mind,  that  Tougal  had  to  pay  five  shillings 
a  week  for  keeping  my  grandfather  in  the 
limits.  The  money  wass  to  be  paid  efery 
Monday,  and  it  wass  to  be  paid  in  lawful 
money  of  Canada,  too.  Well,  would  you  belief 
that  Tougal  paid  in  four  shillings  in  silver  one 
Monday,  and  one  shilling  in  coppers,  for  he 
took  up  the  collection  in  church  the  day  pefore, 
and  it  wass  not  till  Tougal  had  gone  away  that 
the  jailer  saw  that  one  of  the  coppers  was  a 
Brock  copper, — a  medal,  you  will  understand, 
made  at  General  Brock's  death,  and  not  lawful 
money  of  Canada  at  all.  With  that  the  jailer 
came  out  to  my  grandfather. 

"  'Mr.  McTavish,'  says  he,  taking  off  his  hat, 
'you  are  a  free  man,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.'  Then 
he  told  him  what  Tougal  had  done. 

'  *I  hope  you  will  not  have  any  hard  feelings 
toward  me,  Mr.  McTavish,'  said  the  jailer; 
and  a  decent  man  he  wass,  for  all  that  there 
wass  not  a  drop  of  Hielan'  blood  in  him.  'I 
hope  you  will  not  think  hard  of  me  for  not 
being  hospitable  to  you,  sir,'  says  he;  'but  it's 
against  the  rules  and  regulations  for  the  jailer 
to  be  offering  the  best  he  can  command  to  the 


PRIVILEGE   OF   THE   LIMITS  27 

prisoners.  Now  that  you  are  free,  Mr.  Mc- 
Tavish,' says  the  jailer,  'I  would  be  a  proud 
man  if  Mr.  McTavish  of  Glengatchie  would 
do  me  the  honor  of  taking  supper  with  me  this 
night.  I  will  be  asking  your  leave  to  invite 
some  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  place,  if  you  will 
say  the  word,  Mr.  McTavish,'  says  he. 

"Well,  my  grandfather  could  never  bear 
malice,  the  kind  man  he  was,  and  he  seen  how 
bad  the  jailer  felt,  so  he  consented,  and  a  great 
company  came  in,  to  be  sure,  to  celebrate  the 
occasion. 

"Did  my  grandfather  pay  the  balance  on  the 
plough?  What  for  should  you  suspicion,  sir, 
that  my  grandfather  would  refuse  his  honest 
debt?  Of  course  he  paid  for  the  plough,  for 
the  crop  was  good  that  fall. 

"  'I  would  be  paying  you  the  other  half  of 
the  plough  now,  Mr.  Stewart,'  says  my  grand- 
father, coming  in  when  the  store  was  full. 

"  'Hoich,  but  YOU  are  the  honest  McTavish !' 
says  Tougal,  sneering. 

"But  my  grandfather  made  no  answer  to 
the  creature,  for  he  thought  it  would  be  unkind 
to  mention  how  Tougal  had  paid  out  six 
pounds  four  shillings  and  eleven  pence  to  keep 
him  in  on  account  of  a  debt  of  two  pound  five 
that  never  was  due  till  it  was  paid." 


THE  WATERLOO  VETERAN 

Is  Waterloo  a  dead  word  to  you?  the  name 
of  a  plain  of  battle,  no  more?  Or  do  you 
see,  on  a  space  of  rising  ground,  the  little  long- 
coated  man  with  marble  features,  and  un- 
quenchable eyes  that  pierce  through  rolling 
smoke  to  where  the  relics  of  the  old  Guard 
of  France  stagger  and  rally  and  reach  fiercely 
again  up  the  hill  of  St.  Jean  toward  the 
squares,  set,  torn,  red,  re-formed,  stubborn, 
mangled,  victorious  beneath  the  unflinching 
will  of  him  behind  there, — the  Iron  Duke  of 
England? 

Or  is  your  interest  in  the  fight  literary?  and 
do  you  see  in  a  pause  of  the  conflict  Major 
O'Dowd  sitting  on  the  carcass  of  Pyramus 
refreshing  himself  from  that  case-bottle  of 
sound  brandy?  George  Osborne  lying  yonder, 
all  his  fopperies  ended,  with  a  bullet  through 
his  heart?  Rawdon  Crawley  riding  stolidly 
behind  General  Tufto  along  the  front  of  the 
shattered  regiment  where  Captain  Dobbin 
stands  heartsick  for  poor  Emily? 

Or  maybe  the  struggle  arranges  itself  in 

28 


THE    WATERLOO  VETERAN  29 

your  vision  around  one  figure  not  named  in 
history  or  fiction, — that  of  your  grandfather, 
or  his  father,  or  some  old  dead  soldier  of  the 
great  wars  whose  blood  you  exult  to  inherit, 
or  some  grim  veteran  whom  you  saw  tottering 
to  the  rollcall  beyond  when  Queen  Victoria  was 
young  and  you  were  a  little  boy. 

For  me  the  shadows  of  the  battle  are  so 
grouped  round  old  John  Locke  that  the  his- 
torians, story-tellers,  and  pafnters  may  never 
quite  persuade  me  that  he  was  not  the  centre 
and  real  hero  of  the  action.  The  French 
cuirassiers  in  my  thought-pictures  charge  again 
and  again  vainly  against  old  John;  he  it  is 
who  breaks  the  New  Guard;  upon  the  ground 
that  he  defends  the  Emperor's  eyes  are  fixed 
all  day  long.  It  is  John  who  occasionally 
glances  at  the  sky  with  wonder  if  Blucher  has 
failed  them.  Upon  Shaw  the  Lifeguardsman, 
and  John,  the  Duke  plainly  most  relies,  and 
the  words  that  Wellington  actually  speaks 
when  the  time  comes  for  advance  are,  "Up, 
John,  and  at  them!" 

How  fate  drifted  the  old  veteran  of  Water- 
loo into  our  little  Canadian  Lake  Erie  village 
I  never  knew.  Drifted  him?  No;  he  ever 
marched  as  if  under  the  orders  of  his  com- 


30  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

mander.  Tall,  thin,  white-haired,  close-shaven, 
and  always  in  knee-breeches  and  long  stock- 
ings, his  was  an  antique  and  martial  figure. 
"Fresh  white-fish"  was  his  cry,  which  he  de- 
livered as  if  calling  all  the  village  to  fall  in 
for  drill. 

So  impressive  was  his  demeanor  that  he  dig- 
nified his  occupation.  For  years  after  he  dis- 
appeared, the  peddling  of  white-fish  by  horse 
and  cart  was  regarded  in  that  district  as  pecu- 
liarly respectable.  It  was  a  glorious  trade 
when  old  John  Locke  held  the  steelyards  and 
served  out  the  glittering  fish  with  an  air  of 
distributing  ammunition  for  a  long  day's 
combat. 

I  believe  I  noticed,  on  the  first  day  I  saw 
him,  how  he  tapped  his  left  breast  with  a  proud 
gesture  when  he  had  done  with  a  lot  of  cus- 
tomers and  was  about  to  march  again  at  the 
head  of  his  horse.  That  restored  him  from 
trade  to  his  soldiership — he  had  saluted  his 
Waterloo  medal!  There  beneath  his  thread- 
bare old  blue  coat  it  lay,  always  felt  by  the 
heart  of  the  hero. 

"Why  doesn't  he  wear  it  outside?"  I  once 
asked. 

"He  used  to,"  said  my  father;  "till  Hiram 


THE   WATERLOO   VETERAN  31 

Beaman,  the  druggist,  asked  him  what  he'd 
'take  for  the  bit  of  pewter.' ' 

"What  did  old  John  say,  sir?" 

"  'Take  for  the  bit  of  pewter!'  said  he,  look- 
ing hard  at  Beaman  with  scorn.  'I've  took 
better  men's  lives  nor  ever  yours  was  for  to  get 
it,  and  I'd  sell  my  own  for  it  as  quick  as  ever 
I  offered  it  before.' 

'  'More  fool  you,'  said  Beaman. 

"  'You're  nowt,'  said  old  John,  very  calm 
and  cold,  'you're  nowt  but  walking  dirt.'  From 
that  day  forth  he  would  never  sell  Beaman  a 
fish ;  he  wouldn't  touch  his  money." 

It  must  have  been  late  in  1854  or  early  in 
1855  that  I  first  saw  the  famous  medal.  Going 
home  from  school  on  a  bright  winter  afternoon, 
I  met  old  John  walking  very  erect,  without 
his  usual  fish-supply.  A  dull  round  white  spot 
was  clasped  on  the  left  breast  of  his  coat. 

"Mr.  Locke,"  said  the  small  boy,  staring 
with  admiration,  "is  that  your  glorious  Water- 
loo medal?" 

"You're  a  good  little  lad!"  He  stooped  to 
let  me  see  the  noble  pewter.  "War's  declared 
against  Rooshia,  and  now  it's  right  to  show  it. 
The  old  regiment's  sailed,  and  my  only  son  is 
with  the  colors." 


32  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Then  he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me 
into  the  village  store,  where  the  lawyer  read 
aloud  the  news  from  the  paper  that  the  veteran 
gave  him.  In  those  days  there  was  no  railway 
within  fifty  miles  of  us.  It  had  chanced  that 
some  fisherman  brought  old  John  a  later  paper 
than  any  previously  received  in  the  village. 

"Ay,  but  the  Duke  is  gone,"  said  he,  shaking 
his  white  head,  "and  it's  curious  to  be  fighting 
on  the  same  side  with  another  Boney." 

All  that  winter  and  the  next,  all  the  long 
summer  between,  old  John  displayed  his  medal. 
When  the  report  of  Alma  came,  his  remarks 
on  the  French  failure  to  get  into  the  fight 
were  severe.  "What  was  they  ever,  at  best, 
without  Boney?"  he  would  inquire.  But  a 
letter  from  his  son  after  Inkermann  changed 
all  that. 

"Half  of  us  was  killed,  and  the  rest  of  us 
clean  tired  with  fighting,"  wrote  Corporal 
Locke.  "What  with  a  bullet  through  the  flesh 
of  my  right  leg,  and  the  fatigue  of  using  the 
bayonet  so  long,  I  was  like  to  drop.  The  Rus- 
sians was  coming  on  again  as  if  there  was  no 
end  to  them,  when  strange  drums  came  sound- 
ing in  the  mist  behind  us.  With  that  we  closed 
up  and  faced  half-round,  thinking  they  had 


THE    WATERLOO   VETERAN  33 

outflanked  us  and  the  day  was  gone,  so  there 
was  nothing  more  to  do  but  make  out  to  die 
hard,  like  the  sons  of  Waterloo  men.  You 
would  have  been  pleased  to  see  the  looks  of 
what  was  left  of  the  old  regiment,  father. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  a  French  column  came  up 
the  rise  out  of  the  mist,  screaming,  'Vive  VEm- 
pereur!3  their  drums  beating  the  charge.  We 
gave  them  room,  for  we  were  too  dead  tired  to 
go  first.  On  they  went  like  mad  at  the  Rus- 
sians, so  that  was  the  end  of  a  hard  morning's 
work.  I  was  down, — fainted  with  loss  of  blood, 
—but  I  will  soon  be  fit  for  duty  again.  When 
I  came  to  myself  there  was  a  Frenchman  pour- 
ing brandy  down  my  throat,  and  talking  in  his 
gibberish  as  kind  as  any  Christian.  Never  a 
word  will  I  say  agin  them  red-legged  French 
again." 

"Show  me  the  man  that  would!"  growled 
old  John.  "It  was  never  in  them  French  to 
act  cowardly.  Didn't  they  beat  all  the  world, 
and  even  stand  up  many's  the  day  agen  our- 
selves and  the  Duke?  They  didn't  beat, — it 
wouldn't  be  in  reason, — but  they  tried  brave 
enough,  and  what  more'd  you  ask  of  mortal 
men?" 

With  the  ending  of  the  Crimean  War  our 


34  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

village  was  illuminated.  Rows  of  tallow 
candles  in  every  window,  fireworks  in  a  vacant 
field,  and  a  torchlight  procession!  Old  John 
marched  at  its  head  in  full  regimentals, 
straight  as  a  ramrod,  the  hero  of  the  night. 
His  son  had  been  promoted  for  bravery  on  the 
field.  After  John  came  a  dozen  gray  militia- 
men of  Queenston  Heights,  Lundy's  Lane, 
and  Chippewa;  next  some  forty  volunteers  of 
'37.  And  we  boys  of  the  U.  E.  Loyalist  settle- 
ment cheered  and  cheered,  thrilled  with  an  in- 
tense vague  knowledge  that  the  old  army  of 
Wellington  kept  ghostly  step  with  John,  while 
aerial  trumpets  and  drums  pealed  and  beat 
with  rejoicing  at  the  fresh  glory  of  the  race 
and  the  union  of  English-speaking  men  un- 
consciously celebrated  and  symbolized  by  the 
little  rustic  parade. 

After  that  the  old  man  again  wore  his  medal 
concealed.  The  Chinese  War  of  1857  was 
too  contemptible  to  celebrate  by  displaying  his 
badge  of  Waterloo. 

Then  came  the  dreadful  tale  of  the  Sepoy 
mutiny — Meerut,  Delhi,  Cawnpore !  After  the 
tale  of  Nana  Sahib's  massacre  of  women  and 
children  was  read  to  old  John  he  never  smiled, 
I  think.  Week  after  week,  month  after  month, 


OLD  JOHN  MARCHED  IN  FULL  REGIMENTALS 


THE    WATERLOO   VETERAN  35 

as  hideous  tidings  poured  steadily  in,  his  face 
became  more  haggard,  gray,  and  dreadful. 
The  feeling  that  he  was  too  old  for  use  seemed 
to  shame  him.  He  no  longer  carried  his  head 
high,  as  of  yore.  That  his  son  was  not  march- 
ing behind  Havelock  with  the  avenging  army 
seemed  to  cut  our  veteran  sorely.  Sergeant 
Locke  had  sailed  with  the  old  regiment  to  join 
Outram  in  Persia  before  the  Sepoys  broke 
loose.  It  was  at  this  time  that  old  John  was 
first  heard  to  say,  "I'm  'feared  something's 
gone  wrong  with  my  heart." 

Months  went  by  before  we  learned  that  the 
troops  for  Persia  had  been  stopped  on  their 
way  and  thrown  into  India  against  the  muti- 
neers. At  that  news  old  John  marched  into 
the  village  with  a  prouder  air  than  he  had  worn 
for  many  a  day.  His  medal  was  again  on 
his  breast. 

It  was  but  the  next  month,  I  think,  that  the 
village  lawyer  stood  reading  aloud  the  account 
of  the  capture  of  a  great  Sepoy  fort.  The 
veteran  entered  the  post-office,  and  all  made 
way  for  him.  The  reading  went  on : — 

"The  blowing  open  of  the  Northern  Gate 
was  the  grandest  personal  exploit  of  the  attack. 
It  was  performed  by  native  sappers,  covered 


36  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

by  the  fire  of  two  regiments,  and  headed  by 
Lieutenants  Holder  and  Dacre,  Sergeants 
Green,  Carmody,  Macpherson,  and  Locke." 

The  lawyer  paused.  Every  eye  turned  to 
the  face  of  the  old  Waterloo  soldier.  He 
straightened  up  to  keener  attention,  threw  out 
his  chest,  and  tapped  the  glorious  medal  in 
salute  of  the  names  of  the  brave. 

"God  be  praised,  my  son  was  there!"  he 
said.  "Read  on." 

"Sergeant  Carmody,  while  laying  the 
powder,  was  killed,  and  the  native  havildar 
wounded.  The  powder  having  been  laid,  the 
advance  party  slipped  down  into  the  ditch  to 
allow  the  firing  party,  under  Lieutenant  Dacre, 
to  do  its  duty.  While  trying  to  fire  the  charge 
he  was  shot  through  one  arm  and  leg.  He 
sank,  but  handed  the  match  to  Sergeant  Mac- 
pherson, who  was  at  once  shot  dead.  Sergeant 
Locke,  already  wounded  severely  in  the  shoul- 
der, then  seized  the  match,  and  succeeded  in 
firing  the  train.  He  fell  at  that  moment, 
literally  riddled  with  bullets." 

"Read  on,"  said  old  John,  in  a  deeper  voice. 
All  forbore  to  look  twice  upon  his  face. 

"Others  of  the  party  were  falling,  when  the 
mighty  gate  was  blown  to  fragments,  and  the 


THE    WATERLOO   VETERAN  37 

waiting  regiments  of  infantry,  under  Colonel 
Campbell,  rushed  into  the  breach." 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  post-office, 
till  old  John  spoke  once  more. 

"The  Lord  God  be  thanked  for  all  his  deal- 
ings with  us!  My  son,  Sergeant  Locke,  died 
well  for  England,  Queen,  and  Duty." 

Nervously  fingering  the  treasure  on  his 
breast,  the  old  soldier  wheeled  about,  and 
marched  proudly  straight  down  the  middle  of 
the  village  street  to  his  lonely  cabin. 

The  villagers  never  saw  him  in  life  again. 
Next  day  he  did  not  appear.  All  refrained 
from  intruding  on  his  mourning.  But  in  the 
evening,  when  the  Anglican  minister  heard 
of  his  parishioner's  loss,  he  walked  to  old 
John's  home. 

There,  stretched  upon  his  straw  bed,  he  lay 
in  his  antique  regimentals,  stiffer  than  At 
Attention,  all  his  medals  fastened  below  that 
of  Waterloo  above  his  quiet  heart.  His  right 
hand  lay  on  an  open  Bible,  and  his  face  wore 
an  expression  as  of  looking  for  ever  and  ever 
upon  Sergeant  Locke  and  the  Great  Com- 
mander who  takes  back  unto  Him  the  heroes 
He  fashions  to  sweeten  the  world. 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST1 

"A  EENEGADE!  A  rebel  against  his  king! 
A  black-hearted  traitor!  You  dare  to  tell  me 
that  you  love  George  Winthrop!  Son  of 
canting,  lying  Ezra  Winthrop !  By  the  Eter- 
nal, I'll  shoot  him  on  sight  if  he  comes  this 
side!" 

While  old  John  Bedell  was  speaking,  he  tore 
and  flung  away  a  letter,  reached  for  his  long 
rifle  on  its  pins  above  the  chimney-place, 
dashed  its  butt  angrily  to  the  floor,  and 
poured  powder  into  his  palm. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  father!  You  would 
not!  You  could  not!  The  war  is  over.  It 
would  be  murder!"  cried  Ruth  Bedell,  sob- 
bing. 

"Wouldn't  I?"  He  poured  the  powder  in. 
"Yes,  by  gracious,  quicker'n  I'd  kill  a  rattle- 
snake!" He  placed  the  round  bullet  on  the 

1  The  United  Empire  Loyalists  were  American  Tories  who  for- 
sook their  homes  and  property  after  the  Revolution  in'  order  to 
live  in  Canada  under  the  British  "Flag.  It  is  impossible  to  under- 
stand Canadian  feeling  for  the  Crown  at  the  present  day  without 
understanding  the  U.  E.  Loyalist  spirit,  which,  though  Canadi- 
ans are  not  now  unfriendly  to  the  United  States,  is  still  the 
most  important  political  force  in  the  Dominion,  and  holds  it 
firmly  in  allegiance  to  the  Crown. 

38 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST  39 

little  square  of  greased  rag  at  the  muzzle  of  his 
rifle.  "A  rank  traitor — bone  and  blood  of 
those  who  drove  out  loyal  men!" — he  crowded 
the  tight  lead  home,  dashed  the  ramrod  into 
place,  looked  to  the  flint.  "Rest  there, — wake 
up  for  George  Winthrop!"  and  the  fierce  old 
man  replaced  rifle  and  powder-horn  on  their 
pegs. 

Bedell's  hatred  for  the  foes  who  had  beaten 
down  King  George's  cause,  and  imposed  the 
alternative  of  confiscation  or  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance on  the  vanquished,  was  considered  in- 
tense, even  by  his  brother  Loyalists  of  the 
Niagara  frontier. 

"The  Squire  kind  o'  sees  his  boys'  blood 
when  the  sky's  red,"  said  they  in  explanation. 
But  Bedell  was  so  much  an  enthusiast  that  he 
could  almost  rejoice  because  his  three  stark 
sons  had  gained  the  prize  of  death  in  battle. 
He  was  too  brave  to  hate  the  fighting-men  he 
had  so  often  confronted;  but  he  abhorred  the 
politicians,  especially  the  intimate  civic  enemies 
on  whom  he  had  poured  scorn  before  the  armed 
struggle  began.  More  than  any  he  hated  Ezra 
Winthrop,  the  lawyer,  arch-revolutionist  of 
their  native  town,  who  had  never  used  a 
weapon  but  his  tongue.  And  now  his  Ruth, 


40  OLD    MAN    SAVAEJN    STORIES 

the  beloved  and  only  child  left  to  his  exiled 
age,  had  confessed  her  love  for  Ezra  Win- 
throp's  son!  They  had  been  boy  and  girl, 
pretty  maiden  and  bright  stripling  together, 
without  the  Squire  suspecting — he  could  not, 
even  now, -conceive  clearly  so  wild  a  thing  as 
their  affection!  The  confession  burned  in  his 
heart  like  veritable  fire, — a  raging  anguish  of 
mingled  loathing  and  love.  He  stood  now 
gazing  at  Ruth  dumbly,  his  hands  clenched, 
head  sometimes  mechanically  quivering,  anger, 
hate,  love,  grief,  tumultuous  in  his  soul. 

Ruth  glanced  up — her  father  seemed  about 
to  speak — she  bowed  again,  shuddering  as 
though  the  coming  words  might  kill.  Still 
there  was  silence, — a  long  silence.  Bedell  stood 
motionless,  poised,  breathing  hard — the  silence 
oppressed  the  girl — each  moment  her  terror 
increased — expectant  attention  became  suffer- 
ing that  demanded  his  voice — and  still  was 
silence — save  for  the  dull  roar  of  Niagara  that 
more  and  more  pervaded  the  air.  The  torture 
of  waiting  for  the  words — a  curse  against  her, 
she  feared — overwore  Ruth's  endurance.  She 
looked  up  suddenly,  and  John  Bedell  saw  in 
hers  the  beloved  eyes  of  his  dead  wife,  shrink- 
ing with  intolerable  fear.  He  groaned  heavily, 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST  41 

flung  up  his  hands  despairingly,  and  strode 
out  toward  the  river. 

How  crafty  smooth  the  green  Niagara 
sweeps  toward  the  plunge  beneath  that  per- 
petual white  cloud  above  the  Falls!  From 
Bedell's  clearing  below  Navy  Island,  two  miles 
above  the  Falls,  he  could  see  the  swaying  and 
rolling  of  the  mist,  ever  rushing  up  to  expand 
and  overhang.  The  terrible  stream  had  a  pro- 
found fascination  for  him,  with  its  racing  eddies 
eating  at  the  shore;  its  long  weeds,  visible 
through  the  clear  water,  trailing  close  down  to 
the  bottom;  its  inexorable,  eternal,  onward 
pouring.  Because  it  was  so  mighty  and  so 
threatening,  he  rejoiced  grimly  in  the  awful 
river.  To  float,  watching  cracks  and  ledges  of 
its  flat  bottom-rock  drift  quickly  upward;  to 
bend  to  his  oars  only  when  white  crests  of  the 
rapids  yelled  for  his  life;  to  win  escape  by 
sheer  strength  from  points  so  low  down  that  he 
sometimes  doubted  but  the  greedy  forces  had 
been  tempted  too  long ;  to  stake  his  life,  watch- 
ing tree-tops  for  a  sign  that  he  could  yet  save 
it,  was  the  dreadful  pastime  by  which  Bedell 
often  quelled  passionate  promptings  to  re- 
venge his  exile.  "The  Falls  is  bound  to  get 
the  Squire,  some  day,"  said  the  banished  set- 


42  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

tiers.  But  the  Squire's  skiff  was  clean  built 
as  a  pickerel,  and  his  old  arms  iron-strong. 
Now  when  he  had  gone  forth  from  the  beloved 
child,  who  seemed  to  him  so  traitorous  to  his 
love  and  all  loyalty,  he  went  instinctively  to 
spend  his  rage  upon  the  river. 

Ruth  Bedell,  gazing  at  the  loaded  rifle,  shud- 
dered, not  with  dread  only,  but  a  sense  of  hav- 
ing been  treacherous  to  her  father.  She  had 
not  told  him  all  the  truth.  George  Winthrop 
himself,  having  made  his  way  secretly  through 
the  forest  from  Lake  Ontario,  had  given  her 
his  own  letter  asking  leave  from  the  Squire  to 
visit  his  newly  made  cabin.  From  the  moment 
of  arrival  her  lover  had  implored  her  to  fly 
with  him.  But  filial  love  was  strong  in  Ruth 
to  give  hope  that  her  father  would  yield  to  the 
yet  stronger  affection  freshened  in  her  heart. 
Believing  their  union  might  be  permitted,  she 
had  pledged  herself  to  escape  with  her  lover  if 
it  were  forbidden.  Now  he  waited  by  the  hick- 
ory wood  for  a  signal  to  conceal  himself  or 
come  forward. 

When  Ruth  saw  her  father  far  down  the 
river,  she  stepped  to  the  flagstaff  he  had  raised 
before  building  the  cabin — his  first  duty  being 
to  hoist  the  Union  Jack!  It  was  the  largest 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST  43 

flag  he  could  procure;  he  could  see  it  flying 
defiantly  all  day  long;  at  night  he  could  hear 
its  glorious  folds  whipping  in  the  wind ;  the  hot 
old  Loyalist  loved  to  fancy  his  foeman  cursing 
at  it  from  the  other  side,  nearly  three  miles 
away.  Ruth  hauled  the  flag  down  a  little,  then 
ran  it  up  to  the  mast-head  again. 

At  that,  a  tall  young  fellow  came  springing 
into  the  clearing,  jumping  exultantly  over 
brush-heaps  and  tree-trunks,  his  queue  wag- 
gling, his  eyes  bright,  glad,  under  his  three-cor- 
nered hat.  Joying  that  her  father  had  yielded, 
he  ran  forward  till  he  saw  Ruth's  tears. 

"What,  sweetheart! — crying?  It  was  the 
signal  to  come  on,"  cried  he. 

"Yes;  to  see  you  sooner,  George.  Father 
is  out  yonder.  But  no,  he  will  never,  never 
consent." 

"Then  you  will  come  with  me,  love,"  he  said, 
taking  her  hands. 

"No,  no ;  I  dare  not,"  sobbed  Ruth.  "Father 
would  overtake  us.  He  swears  to  shoot  you  on 
sight!  Go,  George!  Escape  while  you  can! 
Oh,  if  he  should  find  you  here  I" 

"But,  darling  love,  we  need  not  fear.  We 
can  escape  easily.  I  know  the  forest  path. 
But — "  Then  he  thought  how  weak  her  pace. 


44  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"We  might  cross  here  before  he  could  come 
up!"  cried  Winthrop,  looking  toward  where 
the  Squire's  boat  was  now  a  distant  blotch. 

"No,  no,"  wailed  Ruth,  yet  yielding  to  his 
embrace.  "This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  you 
forever  and  forever.  Go,  dear, — good-bye,  my 
love,  my  love." 

But  he  clasped  her  in  his  strong  arms,  kiss- 
ing, imploring,  cheering  her, — and  how  should 
true  love  choose  hopeless  renunciation? 

Tempting,  defying,  regaining  his  lost 
ground,  drifting  down  again,  trying  hard  to 
tire  out  and  subdue  his  heart-pangs,  Bedell  dal- 
lied with  death  more  closely  than  ever.  He  had 
let  his  skiff  drift  far  down  toward  the  Falls. 
Often  he  could  see  the  wide  smooth  curve  where 
the  green  volume  first  lapses  vastly  on  a  lazy 
slope,  to  shoulder  up  below  as  a  huge  calm  bil- 
low, before  pitching  into  the  madness  of  waves 
whose  confusion  of  tossing  and  tortured  crests 
hurries  to  the  abyss.  The  afternoon  grew  to- 
ward evening  before  he  pulled  steadily  home, 
crawling  away  from  the  roarers  against  the 
cruel  green,  watching  the  ominous  cloud  with 
some  such  grim  humor  as  if  under  observation 
by  an  overpowering  but  baffled  enemy. 


JOHN   BEDELL,   U.  E.  LOYALIST  45 

Approaching  his  landing,  a  shout  drew  Be- 
dell's glance  ashore  to  a  group  of  men  excitedly 
gesticulating.  They  seemed  motioning  him  to 
watch  the  American  shore.  Turning,  he  saw  a 
boat  in  midstream,  where  no  craft  then  on  the 
river,  except  his  own  skiff,  could  be  safe,  unless 
manned  by  several  good  men.  Only  two  oars 
were  flashing.  Bedell  could  make  out  two  fig- 
ures indistinctly.  It  was  clear  they  were 
doomed, — though  still  a  full  mile  above  the 
point  whence  he  had  come,  they  were  much  far- 
ther out  than  he  when  near  the  rapids.  Yet 
one  life  might  be  saved!  Instantly  Bedell's 
bow  turned  outward,  and  cheers  flung  to  him 
from  ashore. 

At  that  moment  he  looked  to  his  own  land- 
ing-place, and  saw  that  his  larger  boat  was 
gone.  Turning  again,  he  angrily  recognized 
it,  but  kept  right  on — he  must  try  to  rescue 
even  a  thief.  He  wondered  Ruth  had  not  pre- 
vented the  theft,  but  had  no  suspicion  of  the 
truth.  Always  he  had  refused  to  let  her  go  out 
upon  the  river — mortally  fearing  it  for  her. 

Thrusting  his  skiff  mightily  forward, — often 
it  glanced,  half -whirled  by  up-whelming  and 
spreading  spaces  of  water, — the  old  Loyalist's 
heart  was  quit  of  his  pangs,  and  sore  only  with 


46  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

certainty  that  he  must  abandon  one  human  soul 
to  death.  By  the  time  that  he  could  reach  the 
larger  boat  his  would  be  too  near  the  rapids  for 
escape  with  three ! 

When  George  Winthrop  saw  Bedell  in  pur- 
suit, he  bent  to  his  ash-blades  more  strongly, 
and  Ruth,  trembling  to  remember  her  father's 
threats,  urged  her  lover  to  speed.  They  feared 
the  pursuer  only,  quite  unconscious  that  they 
were  in  the  remorseless  grasp  of  the  river. 
Ruth  had  so  often  seen  her  father  far  lower 
down  than  they  had  yet  drifted  that  she  did  not 
realize  the  truth,  and  George,  a  stranger  in  the 
Niagara  district,  was  unaware  of  the  length  of 
the  cataracts  above  the  Falls.  He  was  also 
deceived  by  the  stream's  treacherous  smooth- 
ness, and  instead  of  half-upward,  pulled 
straight  across,  as  if  certainly  able  to  land  any- 
where he  might  touch  the  American  shore. 

Bedell  looked  over  his  shoulder  often.  When 
he  distinguished  a  woman,  he  put  on  more 
force,  but  slackened  soon — the  pull  home  would 
tax  his  endurance,  he  reflected.  In  some  sort 
it  was  a  relief  to  know  that  one  was  a  woman ; 
he  had  been  anticipating  trouble  with  two  men 
equally  bent  on  being  saved.  That  the  man 
would  abandon  himself  bravely,  the  Squire 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST  47 

took  as  a  matter  of  course.  For  a  while  he 
thought  of  pulling  with  the  woman  to  the 
American  shore,  more  easily  to  be  gained  from 
the  point  where  the  rescue  must  occur.  But 
he  rejected  the  plan,  confident  he  could  win 
back,  for  he  had  sworn  never  to  set  foot  on  that 
soil  unless  in  war.  Had  it  been  possible  to  save 
both,  he  would  have  been  forced  to  disregard 
that  vow;  but  the  Squire  knew  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  reach  the  New  York  shore 
with  two  passengers — two  would  overload  his 
boat  beyond  escape.  Man  or  woman — one 
must  go  over  the  Falls. 

Having  carefully  studied  landmarks  for  his 
position,  Bedell  turned  to  look  again  at  the 
doomed  boat,  and  a  well-known  ribbon  caught 
his  attention!  The  old  man  dropped  his  oars, 
confused  with  horror.  "My  God,  my  God!  it's 
Ruth !"  he  cried,  and  the  whole  truth  came  with 
another  look,  for  he  had  not  forgotten  George 
Winthrop. 

"Your  father  stops,  Ruth.  Perhaps  he  is  in 
pain,"  said  George  to  the  quaking  girl. 

She  looked  back.  "What  can  it  be?"  she 
cried,  filial  love  returning  overmasteringly. 

"Perhaps  he  is  only  tired."  George  affected 
carelessness, — his  first  wish  was  to  secure  his 


48  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

bride, — and  pulled  hard  away  to  get  all. advan- 
tage from  Bedell's  halt. 

"Tired !  He  is  in  danger  of  the  Falls,  then !" 
screamed  Ruth.  "Stop!  Turn!  Back  to  him!" 

Winthrop  instantly  prepared  to  obey.  "Yes, 
darling,"  he  said,  "we  must  not  think  of  our- 
selves. We  must  go  back  to  save  him!"  Yet 
his  was  a  sore  groan  at  turning;  what  Duty 
ordered  was  so  hard, — he  must  give  up  his  love 
for  the  sake  of  his  enemy. 

But  while  Winthrop  was  still  pulling  round, 
the  old  Loyalist  resumed  rowing,  with  a  more 
rapid  stroke  that  soon  brought  him  alongside. 

In  those  moments  of  waiting,  all  Bedell's  life, 
his  personal  hatreds,  his  loves,  his  sorrows,  had 
been  reviewed  before  his  soul.  He  had  seen 
again  his  sons,  the  slain  in  battle,  in  the  pride 
of  their  young  might;  and  the  gentle  eyes  of 
Ruth  had  pleaded  with  him  beneath  his  dead 
wife's  brow.  Into  those  beloved,  unforgotten, 
visionary  eyes  he  looked  with  an  encouraging, 
strengthening  gaze, — now  that  the  deed  to  be 
done  was  as  clear  before  him  as  the  face  of 
Almighty  God.  In  accepting  it  the  darker  pas- 
sions that  had  swayed  his  stormy  life  fell  sud- 
denly away  from  their  hold  on  his  soul.  How 
trivial  had  been  old  disputes !  how  good  at  heart 


JOHN  BEDELL,  U.  E.  LOYALIST  49 

old  well-known  civic  enemies !  how  poor  seemed 
hate !  how  mean  and  poor  seemed  all  but  Love 
and  Loyalty! 

Resolution  and  deep  peace  had  come  upon 
the  man. 

The  lovers  wondered  at  his  look.  No  wrath 
was  there.  The  old  eyes  were  calm  and  cheer- 
ful, a  gentle  smile  flickered  about  his  lips.  Only 
that  he  was  very  pale,  Ruth  would  have  been 
wholly  glad  for  the  happy  change. 

"Forgive  me,  father,"  she  cried,  as  he  laid 
hand  on  their  boat. 

"I  do,  my  child,"  he  answered.  "Come  now 
without  an  instant's  delay  to  me." 

"Oh,  father,  if  you  would  let  us  be  happy!" 
cried  Ruth,  heart-torn  by  two  loves. 

"Dear,  you  shall  be  happy.  I  was  wrong, 
child ;  I  did  not  understand  how  you  loved  him. 
But  come !  You  hesitate !  Winthrop,  my  son, 
you  are  in  some  danger.  Into  this  boat  in- 
stantly! both  of  you!  Take  the  oars,  George. 
Kiss  me,  dear,  my  Ruth,  once  more.  Good- 
bye, my  little  girl.  Winthrop,  be  good  to  her. 
And  may  God  bless  you  both  forever!" 

As  the  old  Squire  spoke,  he  stepped  into  the 
larger  boat,  instantly  releasing  the  skiff.  His 
imperative  gentleness  had  secured  his  object 


50  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN   STORIES 

without  loss  of  time,  and  the  boats  were  apart 
with  Winthrop's  readiness  to  pull. 

"Now  row!  Row  for  her  life  to  yonder 
shore !  Bow  well  up !  Away,  or  the  Falls  will 
have  her!"  shouted  Bedell. 

"But  you!"  cried  Winthrop,  bending  for  his 
stroke.  Yet  he  did  not  comprehend  Bedell's 
meaning.  Till  the  last  the  old  man  had  spoken 
without  strong  excitement.  Dread  of  the  river 
was  not  on  George;  his  bliss  was  supreme  in 
his  thought,  and  he  took  the  Squire's  order  for 
one  of  exaggerated  alarm. 

"Row,  I  say,  with  all  your  strength!"  cried 
Bedell,  with  a  flash  of  anger  that  sent  the 
young  fellow  away  instantly.  "Row!  Concern 
yourself  not  for  me.  I  am  going  home.  Row ! 
for  her  life,  Winthrop !  God  will  deliver  you 
yet.  Good-bye,  children.  Remember  always 
my  blessing  is  freely  given  you." 

"God  bless  and  keep  you  forever,  father!" 
cried  Ruth,  from  the  distance,  as  her  lover 
pulled  away. 

They  landed,  conscious  of  having  passed  a 
swift  current,  indeed,  but  quite  unthinking  of 
the  price  paid  for  their  safety.  Looking  back 
on  the  darkling  river,  they  saw  nothing  of  the 
old  man. 


JOHN  BEDELL,  TJ.  E.  LOYALIST  51 

"Poor  father!"  sighed  Ruth,  "how  kind  he 
was !  I'm  sore-hearted  for  thinking  of  him  at 
home,  so  lonely." 

Left  alone  in  the  clumsy  boat,  Bedell 
stretched  with  the  long,  heavy  oars  for  his  own 
shore,  making  appearance  of  strong  exertion. 
But  when  he  no  longer  feared  that  his  children 
might  turn  back  with  sudden  understanding, 
and  vainly,  to  his  aid,  he  dragged  the  boat 
slowly,  watching  her  swift  drift  down — down 
toward  the  towering  mist.  Then  as  he  gazed  at 
the  cloud,  rising  in  two  distinct  volumes,  came 
a  thought  spurring  the  Loyalist  spirit  in  an  in- 
stant. He  was  not  yet  out  of  American  water! 
Thereafter  he  pulled  steadily,  powerfully,  not- 
ing landmarks  anxiously,  studying  currents, 
considering  always  their  trend  to  or  from  his 
own  shore.  Half  an  hour  had  gone  when  he 
again  dropped  into  slower  motion.  Then  he 
could  see  Goat  Island's  upper  end  between  him 
and  the  mist  of  the  American  Fall. 

Now  the  old  man  gave  himself  up  to  intense 
curiosity,  looking  over  into  the  water  with 
fascinated  inquiry.  He  had  never  been  so  far 
down  the  river.  Darting  beside  their  shadows, 
deep  in  the  clear  flood,  were  now  larger  fishes 
than  he  had  ever  taken,  and  all  moved  up  as  if 


52  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

hurrying  to  escape.  How  fast  the  long  trail- 
ing, swaying,  single  weeds,  and  the  crevices  in 
flat  rock  whence  they  so  strangely  grew,  went 
up  stream  and  away  as  if  drawn  backward. 
The  sameness  of  the  bottom  to  that  higher  up 
interested  him — where  then  did  the  current 
begin  to  sweep  clean?  He  should  certainly 
know  that  soon,  he  thought,  without  a  touch 
of  fear,  having  utterly  accepted  death  when 
he  determined  it  were  base  to  carry  his  weary 
old  life  a  little  longer,  and  let  Ruth's  young 
love  die.  Now  the  Falls'  heavy  monotone  was 
overborne  by  terrible  sounds — a  mingled  clash- 
ing, shrieking,"- groaning,  and  rumbling,  as  of 
great  bowlders  churned  in  their  beds. 

Bedell  was  nearing  the  first  long  swoop 
downward  at  the  rapids'  head  when  those 
watching  him  from  the  high  bank  below  the 
Chippewa  River's  mouth  saw  him  put  his  boat 
stern  with  the  current  and  cease  rowing  en- 
tirely, facing  fairly  the  up-rushing  mist  to 
which  he  was  being  hurried.  Then  they  ob- 
served him  stooping,  as  if  writing,  for  a  time. 
Something  flashed  in  his  hands,  and  then  he 
knelt  with  head  bowed  down.  Kneeling,  they 
prayed,  too. 

Now  he  was  almost  on  the  brink  of  the 


JOHN  BEDELL,  TJ.  E.  LOYALIST  53 

cascades.  Then  he  arose,  and,  glancing  back- 
ward to  his  home,  caught  sight  of  his  friends 
on  the  high  shore.  Calmly  he  waved  a  farewell. 
What  then?  Thrice  round  he  flung  his  hat, 
with  a  gesture  they  knew  full  well.  Some  had 
seen  that  exultant  waving  in  front  of  ranks  of 
hattle.  As  clearly  as  though  the  roar  of  waters 
had  not  drowned  his  ringing  voice,  they  knew 
that  old  John  Bedell,  at  the  poise  of  death, 
cheered  thrice,  "Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Hurrah 
for  the  King!" 

They  found  his  body  a  week  afterward,  float- 
ing with  the  heaving  water  in  the  gorge  below 
the  Falls.  Though  beaten  almost  out  of  recog- 
nition, portions  of  clothing  still  adhered  to  it, 
and  in  a  waistcoat  pocket  they  found  the  old 
Loyalist's  metal  snuff-box,  with  this  inscrip- 
tion scratched  by  knife-point  on  the  cover: 
"God  be  praised,  I  die  in  British  waters! 
JOHN  BEDELL." 


OLD  MAN  SAVARIN 

OLD  Ma'ame  Paradis  had  caught  seventeen 
small  dore,  four  suckers,  and  eleven  channel- 
catfish  before  she  used  up  all  the  worms  in 
her  tomato-can.  Therefore  she  was  in  a  cheer- 
ful and  loquacious  humor  when  I  came  along 
and  offered  her  some  of  my  bait. 

"Merci ;  non,  M'sieu.  Dat's  'nuff  fishin'  for 
me.  I  got  too  old  now  for  fish  too  much.  You 
like  me  make  you  present  of  six  or  seven  dore? 
Yes?  All  right.  Then  you  make  me  present 
of  one  quarter  dollar." 

When  this  transaction  was  completed,  the 
old  lady  got  out  her  short  black  clay  pipe,  and 
filled  it  with  tabac  blanc. 

"Ver'  good  smell  for  scare  mosquitoes,"  said 
she.  "Sit  down,  M'sieu.  For  sure  I  like  to 
be  here,  me,  for  see  the  river  when  she's  like 
this." 

Indeed  the  scene  was  more  than  picturesque. 
Her  fishing-platform  extended  twenty  feet 
from  the  rocky  shore  of  the  great  Rataplan 
Rapid  of  the  Ottawa,  which,  beginning  to 
tumble  a  mile  to  the  westward,  poured  a  roar- 

54 


OLD    MAN    SAVARIN  55 

ing  torrent  half  a  mile  wide  into  the  broader, 
calm  brown  reach  below.  Noble  elms  towered 
on  the  shores.  Between  their  trunks  we  could 
see  many  whitewashed  cabins,  whose  doors  of 
blue  or  green  or  red  scarcely  disclosed  their 
colors  in  that  light. 

The  sinking  sun,  which  already  touched  the 
river,  seemed  somehow  the  source  of  the  vast 
stream  that  flowed  radiantly  from  its  blaze. 
Through  the  glamour  of  the  evening  mist  and 
the  maze  of  June  flies  we  could  see  a  dozen 
men  scooping  for  fish  from  platforms  like  that 
of  Ma'ame  Paradis. 

Each  scooper  lifted  a  great  hoop-net  set  on 
a  handle  some  fifteen  feet  long,  threw  it  easily 
up  stream,  and  swept  it  on  edge  with  the  cur- 
rent to  the  full  length  of  his  reach.  Then  it 
was  drawn  out  and  at  once  thrown  upward 
again,  if  no  capture  had  been  made.  In  case 
he  had  taken  fish,  he  came  to  the  inshore  edge 
of  his  platform,  and  upset  the  net's  contents 
into  a  pool  separated  from  the  main  rapid  by 
an  improvised  wall  of  stones. 

"I'm  too  old  for  scoop  some  now,"  said 
Ma'ame  Paradis,  with  a  sigh. 

"You  were  never  strong  enough  to  scoop, 
surely,"  said  I. 


56  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"No,  eh?  All  right,  M'sieu.  Then  you 
hain't  nev'  hear  'bout  the  time  Old  Man 
Savarin  was  catched  up  with.  No,  eh?  Well, 
I'll  tol'  you  'bout  that."  And  this  was  her 
story  as  she  told  it  to  me. 

"Der  was  fun  dose  time.  Nobody  ain't  nev' 
catch  up  with  dat  old  rascal  ony  other  time 
since  I'll  know  him  first.  Me,  I'll  be  only  fif- 
teen den.  Dat's  long  time  'go,  eh?  Well, 
for  sure,  I  ain't  so  old  like  what  I'll  look.  But 
Old  Man  Savarin  was  old  already.  He's  old, 
old,  old,  when  he's  only  thirty;  an'  mean— 
bapteme!  If  de  old  Nick  ain'  got  de  hottest 
place  for  dat  old  stingy — yes,  for  sure! 

"You'll  see  up  dere  where  Frawce  Seguin 
is  scoop?  Dat's  the  Laroque  platform  by 
right.  Me,  I  was  a  Laroque.  My  fader  was 
use  for  scoop  dere,  an'  my  gran'fader — the 
Laroques  scoop  dere  all  de  time  since  ever 
dere  was  some  Rapid  Rataplan.  Den  Old  Man 
Savarin  he's  buyed  the  land  up  dere  from  Felix 
Ladoucier,  an'  he's  told  my  fader,  'You  can't 
scoop  no  more  wisout  you  pay  me  rent.' 

"  'Rent !'  my  fader  say.  'Saprie!  Dat's  my 
fader's  platform  for  scoop  fish !  You  ask  any- 
body/ 


OLD   MAN   SAVARIN  57 

"  'Oh,  I'll  know  all  'bout  dat,'  Old  Man 
Savarin  is  say.  'Ladoucier  let  you  scoop  front 
of  his  land,  for  Ladoucier  one  big  fool.  De 
lan's  mine  now,  an'  de  fishin'  right  is  mine. 
You  can't  scoop  dere  wisout  you  pay  me  rent.' 

ffBapteme!  I'll  show  you  'bout  dat,'  my 
fader  say. 

"Next  mawny  he  is  go  for  scoop  same  like 
always.  Den  Old  Man  Savarin  is  fetch  my 
fader  up  before  de  magistrate.  De  magistrate 
make  my  fader  pay  nine  shillin'! 

'  'Mebbe  dat's  learn  you  one  lesson,'  Old 
Man  Savarin  is  say. 

"My  fader  swear  pretty  good,  but  my  moder 
say :  'Well,  Narcisse,  dere  hain'  no  use  for  take 
it  out  in  malediction.  De  nine  shillin'  is  paid. 
You  scoop  more  fish — dat's  the  way.' 

"So  my  fader  he  is  go  out  early,  early  nex* 
mawny.  He's  scoop,  he's  scoop.  He's  catch 
plenty  fish  before  Old  Man  Savarin  come. 

'You  ain't  got  'nuff  yet  for  fishin'  on  my 
land,  eh?  Come  out  of  dat,'  Old  Man  Savarin 
is  say. 

f  'Saprie!  Ain't  I  pay  nine  shillin'  for  fish 
here?'  my  fader  say. 

f  'Oui — you  pay  nine  shillin'  for  fish  here 
wisout  my  leave.  But  you  ain't  pay  nothin'  for 


58  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

fish  here  wis  my  leave.    You  is  goin'  up  before 
de  magistrate  some  more.' 

"So  he  is  fetch  my  fader  up  anoder  time. 
An'  de  magistrate  make  my  fader  pay  twelve 
shillin'  more! 

"  'Well,  I  s'pose  I  can  go  fish  on  my  fader's 
platform  now/  my  fader  is  say. 

"Old  Man  Savarin  was  laugh.  'Your  honor, 
dis  man  tink  he  don't  have  for  pay  me  no  rent, 
because  you'll  make  him  pay  two  fines  for 
trespass  on  my  land.' 

"So  de  magistrate  told  my  fader  he  hain't 
got  no  more  right  for  go  on  his  own  platform 
than  he  was  at  the  start.  My  fader  is  ver' 
angry.  He's  cry,  he's  tear  his  shirt;  but  Old 
Man  Savarin  only  say,  'I  guess  I  learn  you 
one  good  lesson,  Narcisse.' 

"De  whole  village  ain't  told  de  old  rascal 
how  much  dey  was  angry  'bout  dat,  for  Old 
Man  Savarin  is  got  dem  all  in  debt  at  his  big 
store.  He  is  grin,  grin,  and  told  everybody 
how  he  learn  my  fader  two  good  lesson.  An' 
he  is  told  my  fader:  'You  see  what  I'll  be  goin' 
for  do  wis  you  if  ever  you  go  on  my  land  again 
wisout  you  pay  me  rent.' 

'  'How  much  you  want?'  my  fader  say. 

"  'Half  de  fish  you  catch.' 


OLD   MAN    SAVARIN  59 

"'Monjee!    Never!' 

"  'Five  dollar  a  year,  den.' 

ff  'Saprie,  no.    Dat's  too  much.' 

"  'All  right.  Keep  off  my  Ian,'  if  you  hain't 
want  anoder  lesson.' 

"  'You's  a  tief,'  my  fader  say. 

"  'Hermidas,  make  up  Narcisse  Laroque 
bill,'  de  old  rascal  say  to  his  clerk.  'If  he  hain't 
pay  dat  bill  to-morrow,  I  sue  him.' 

"So  my  fader  is  scare  mos'  to  death.  Only 
my  moder  she's  say,  'I'll  pay  dat  bill,  me.' 

"So  she's  take  the  money  she's  saved  up 
long  time  for  make  my  weddin'  when  it  come. 
An'  she's  paid  de  bill.  So  den  my  fader  hain't 
scare  no  more,  an'  he  is  shake  his  fist  good 
under  Old  Man  Savarin's  ugly  nose.  But  dat 
old  rascal  only  laugh  an'  say,  'Narcisse,  you 
like  to  be  fined  some  more,  eh?' 

'  'Tort  Dieu.  You  rob  me  of  my  place  for 
fish,  but  I'll  take  my  platform  anyhow,'  my 
fader  is  say. 

'Yes,  eh?  All  right — if  you  can  get  him 
wisout  go  on  my  land.  But  you  go  on  my  land, 
and  see  if  I  don't  learn  you  anoder  lesson,' 
Old  Savarin  is  say. 

"So  my  fader  is  rob  of  his  platform,  too. 
Nex'  ting  we  hear,  Frawce  Seguin  has  rent  dat 
platform  for  five  dollars  a  year. 


60  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"Den  de  big  fun  begin.  My  fader  an  Frawce 
is  cousin.  All  de  time  before  den  dey  was  good 
friend.  But  my  fader  he  is  go  to  Frawce 
Seguin's  place  an'  he  is  told  him,  'Frawce, 
I'll  goin'  lick  you  so  hard  you  can't  nev'  scoop 
on  my  platform.' 

"Frawce  only  laugh.  Den  Old  Man  Savarin 
come  up  de  hill. 

"  'Fetch  him  up  to  de  magistrate  an'  learn 
him  anoder  lesson,'  he  is  say  to  Frawce. 

"  'What  for?'  Frawce  say. 

'  'For  try  to  scare  you.' 

"  'He  hain't  hurt  me  none.' 

"  'But  he's  say  he  will  lick  you.' 

"  'Dat's  only  because  he's  vex,'  Frawce  say. 

"'Bapteme!  Non!'  my  fader  say.  'I'll  be 
goin'  for  lick  you  good,  Frawce.' 

'  'For  sure?'  Frawce  say. 

r  'Saprie!    Yes ;  for  sure.' 

"  'Well,  dat's  all  right  den,  Narcisse.  When 
you  goin'  for  lick  me?' 

"  'First  time  I'll  get  drunk.  I'll  be  goin' 
for  get  drunk  dis  same  day.' 

"  'All  right,  Narcisse.  If  you  goin'  get 
drunk  for  lick  me,  I'll  be  goin'  get  drunk  for 
lick  you' — Canadien  hain't  nev'  fool  'nuff  for 
fight,  M'sieu,  only  if  dey  is  got  drunk. 


DEY  8  FIGHT  LIKE  DAT  FOR  MORE  AS  FOUR  HOURS 


OLD    MAN    SAVARIN  61 

"Well,  my  fader  he's  go  on  old  Marceau's 
hotel,  an'  he's  drink  all  day.  Frawce  Seguin 
he's  go  cross  de  road  on  Joe  Maufraud's  hotel, 
an'  he's  drink  all  day.  When  de  night  come, 
dey's  bose  stand  out  in  front  of  de  two  hotel 
for  fight. 

"Dey's  bose  yell  an'  yell  for  make  de  oder 
feller  scare  bad  before  dey  begin.  Hermidas 
Laronde  an'  Jawnny  Leroi  dey's  hold  my  fader 
for  fear  he's  go  'cross  de  road  for  keel  Frawce 
Seguin  dead.  Pierre  Seguin  an'  Magloire 
Sauve  is  hold  Frawce  for  fear  he's  come  'cross 
de  road  for  keel  my  fader  dead.  And  dose  men 
fight  dat  way  'cross  de  road,  till  dey  hain't 
hardly  able  for  stand  up  no  more. 

"My  fader  he's  tear  his  shirt  and  he's  yell, 
'Let  me  at  him!'  Frawce  he's  tear  his  shirt 
and  he's  yell,  'Let  me  at  him!'  But  de  men 
hain't  goin'  for  let  dem  loose,  for  fear  one  is 
strike  de  oder  ver'  hard.  De  whole  village  is 
shiver  'bout  dat  offle  fight — yes,  seh,  shiver 
bad! 

"Well,  dey's  fight  like  dat  for  more  as  four 
hours,  till  dey  hain't  able  for  yell  no  more,  an' 
dey  hain't  got  no  money  left  for  buy  wheeskey 
for  de  crowd.  Den  Marceau  and  Joe  Mau- 
fraud  tol'  dem  bose  it  was  a  shame  for  two 


62  OLD    MAN    SAVAKJN    STORIES 

cousins  to  fight  so  bad.  An'  my  fader  he's  say 
he's  ver'  sorry  dat  he  lick  Frawce  so  hard, 
and  dey's  hose  sorry.  So  dey's  kiss  one  an- 
oder  good — only  all  their  close  is  tore  to 
pieces. 

"An'  what  you  tink  'bout  Old  Man  Savarin? 
Old  Man  Savarin  is  just  stand  in  front  of  his 
store  all  de  time,  an'  he's  say:  'I'll  tink  I'll 
fetch  'him  bose  hup  to  de  magistrate,  an'  I'll 
learn  him  bose  a  lesson.' 

"Me,  I'll  be  only  fifteen,  but  I  hain't  scare 
'bout  dat  fight  same  like  my  moder  is  scare. 
]STo  more  is  Alphonsine  Seguin  scare.  She's 
seventeen,  an'  she  wait  for  de  fight  to  be  all 
over.  Den  she  take  her  fader  home,  same  like 
I'll  take  my  fader  home  for  bed.  Dat's  after 
twelve  o'clock  of  night. 

"N"ex'  mawny  early  my  fader  he's  groaned 
and  he's  groaned:  'Ah — ugh — I'm  sick,  sick, 
me.  I'll  be  goin'  for  die  dis  time,  for  sure.' 

'You  get  up  an'  scoop  some  fish,'  my  moder 
she's  say,  angry.  'Den  you  hain't  be  sick  no 
more.' 

"  'Ach— ugh— I'll  hain't  be  able.  Oh,  I'll 
be  so  sick.  An'  I  hain'  got  no  place  for  scoop 
fish  now  no  more.  Frawce  Seguin  has  rob  my 
platform.' 


OLD   MAN    SAVAIIIN  63 

"  'Take  de  nex'  one  lower  down,'  my  moder 
she's  say. 

*  'Dat's  Jawnny  Leroi's.' 
'  'All  right  for  dat.    Jawnny  he's  hire  for 
run  timber  to-day.' 

!  'Ugh — I'll  not  be  able  for  get  up.  Send 
for  M'sieu  le  Cure — I'll  be  goin'  for  die  for 
sure.' 

'  'Misere,  but  dat's  no  man!  Dat's  a  drunk 
pig,'  my  moder  she's  say,  angry.  'Sick,  eh? 
Lazy,  lazy — dat's  so.  An'  dere  hain't  no  fish 
for  de  little  chilluns,  an'  it's  Friday  mawny.' 
So  my  moder  she's  begin  for  cry. 

"Well,  M'sieu,  I'll  make  de  rest  short;  for 
de  sun  is  all  gone  now.  What  you  tink  I  do 
dat  mawny?  I  take  de  big  scoop-net  an'  I'll 
come  up  here  for  see  if  I'll  be  able  for  scoop 
some  fish  on  Jawnny  Leroi's  platform.  Only 
dere  hain't  nev'  much  fish  dere. 

"Pretty  quick  I'll  look  up  and  I'll  see 
Alphonsine  Seguin  scoop,  scoop  on  my  fader's 
old  platform.  Alphonsine's  fader  is  sick,  sick, 
same  like  my  fader,  an'  all  de  Seguin  boys  is 
too  little  for  scoop,  same  like  my  brudders  is 
too  little.  So  dere  Alphonsine  she's  scoop, 
scoop  for  breakfas'. 

"What  you  tink  I'll  see  some  more?     I'll 


64  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

see  Old  Man  Savarin.  He's  watchin'  from  de 
corner  of  de  cedar  bush,  an  I'll  know  ver'  good 
what  he's  watch  for.  He's  watch  for  catch 
my  fader  go  on  his  own  platform.  He's  want 
for  learn  my  fader  anoder  lesson.  Saprie! 
dat's  make  me  ver'  angry,  M'sieu! 

"Alphonsine  she's  scoop,  scoop  plenty  fish. 
I'll  not  be  scoop  none.  Dat's  make  me  more 
angry.  I'll  look  up  where  Alphonsine  is,  an' 
I'll  talk  to  myself  :- 

*  'Dat's  my  fader's  platform,'  I'll  be  say. 
'Dat's  my  fader's  fish  what  you  catch,  Alphon- 
sine. You  hain't  nev'  be  my  cousin  no  more. 
It  is  mean,  mean  for  Frawce  Seguin  to  rent 
my  fader's  platform  for  please  dat  old  rascal 
Savarin.'  Mebby  I'll  not  be  so  angry  at 
Alphonsine,  M'sieu,  if  I  was  able  for  catch 
some  fish;  but  I  hain't  able — I  don't  catch 
none. 

"Well,  M'sieu,  dat's  de  way  for  long  time- 
half -hour  mebby.  Den  I'll  hear  Alphonsine 
yell  good.  I'll  look  up  de  river  some  more. 
She's  try  for  lift  her  net.  She's  try  hard,  hard, 
but  she  hain't  able.  De  net  is  down  in  de  rapid, 
an'  she's  only  able  for  hang  on  to  de  hannle. 
Den  I'll  know  she's  got  one  big  sturgeon,  an' 
he's  so  big  she  can't  pull  him  up. 


OLD    MAN    SAVARIN  65 

"Monjee!  what  I  care  'bout  dat!  I'll  laugh 
me.  Den  I'll  laugh  good  some  more,  for  I'll 
want  Alphonsine  for  see  how  I'll  laugh  big. 
And  I'll  talk  to  myself  :- 

*  'Dat's  good  for  dose  Seguins,'  I'll  say. 
'De  big  sturgeon  will  pull  away  de  net.  Den 
Alphonsine  she  will  lose  her  fader's  scoop  wis 
de  sturgeon.  Dat's  good  'nuff  for  dose 
Seguins !  Take  my  fader  platform,  eh  ?' 

"For  sure,  I'll  want  for  go  an'  help  Alphon- 
sine all  de  same — she's  my  cousin,  an'  I'll  want 
for  see  de  sturgeon,  me.  But  I'll  only  just 
laugh,  laugh.  Non,  M'sieu;  dere  was  not  one 
man  out  on  any  of  de  oder  platform  dat  mawny 
for  to  help  Alphonsine.  Dey  was  all  sleep 
ver'  late,  for  dey  was  all  out  ver'  late  for  see 
de  offle  fight  I  told  you  'bout. 

"Well,  pretty  quick,  what  you  tink?  I'll 
see  Old  Man  Savarin  goin'  to  my  fader's  plat- 
form. He's  take  hold  for  help  Alphonsine,  an' 
dey's  bose  pull,  and  pretty  quick  de  big  stur- 
geon is  up  on  de  platform.  I'll  be  more  angry 
as  before. 

"Oh,  tort  Dieu!  What  you  tink  come  den? 
Why,  dat  Old  Man  Savarin  is  want  for  take 
de  sturgeon! 

"First  dey  hain't  speak  so  I  can  hear,  for 


66  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

de  Rapid  is  too  loud.    But  pretty  quick  dey's 
bose  angry,  and  I  hear  dem  talk. 

'  'Dat's  my  fish,'  Old  Man  Savarin  is  say. 
'Didn't  I  save  him?  Wasn't  you  goin'  for  lose 
him,  for  sure?' 

"Me — I'll  laugh  good.  Dass  such  an  old 
rascal. 

'  You  get  off  dis  platform,  quick!'  Alphon- 
sine  she's  say. 

'  'Give  me  my  sturgeon,'  he's  say. 

'  'Dat's  a  lie — it  hain't  your  sturgeon.  It's 
my  sturgeon,'  she's  yell. 

*  'I'll  learn  you  one  lesson  'bout  dat,'  he's 
say. 

"Well,  M'sieu,  Alphonsine  she's  pull  back 
de  fish  just  when  Old  Man  Savarin  is  make  one 
grab.  An'  when  she's  pull  back,  she's  step  to 
one  side,  an'  de  old  rascal  he  is  grab  at  de  fish, 
an'  de  heft  of  de  sturgeon  is  make  him  fall  on 
his  face,  so  he's  tumble  in  de  Rapid  when 
Alphonsine  let  go  de  sturgeon.  So  der's  Old 
Man  Savarin  floating  in  de  river — and  me! 
I'll  don'  care  eef  he's  drown  one  bit! 

"One  time  he  is  on  his  back,  one  time  he  is 
on  his  face,  one  time  he  is  all  under  de  water. 
For  sure  he's  goin'  for  be  draw  into  de  culbute 
an'  get  drown'  dead,  if  I'll  not  be  able  for 


OLD    MAN   SAVARIN  67 

scoop  him  when  he's  go  by  my  platform.  I'll 
want  for  laugh,  but  I'll  be  too  much  scare. 

"Well,  M'sieu,  I'll  pick  up  my  fader's  scoop 
and  I'll  stand  out  on  de  edge  of  de  platform. 
De  water  is  run  so  fast,  I'm  mos'  'fraid  de  old 
man  is  boun'  for  pull  me  in  when  I'll  scoop 
him.  But  I'll  not  mind  for  dat,  I'll  throw  de 
scoop  an'  catch  him;  an'  for  sure,  he's  hold 
on  good. 

"So  dere's  de  old  rascal  in  de  scoop,  but 
when  I'll  get  him  safe,  I  hain't  able  for  pull 
him  in  one  bit.  I'll  only  be  able  for  hold  on 
an'  laugh,  laugh — he's  look  ver'  queer!  All  I 
can  do  is  to  hold  him  dere  so  he  can't  go  down 
de  culbute.  I'll  can't  pull  him  up  if  I'll  want 
to. 

"De  old  man  is  scare  ver'  bad.  But  pretty 
quick  he's  got  hold  of  de  cross-bar  of  de  hoop, 
an'  he's  got  his  ugly  old  head  up  good. 

'  'Pull  me  in,'  he  say,  ver'  angry. 

"  'I'll  hain't  be  able,'  I'll  say. 

"Jus'  den  Alphonsine  she's  come  'long,  an' 
she's  laugh  so  she  can't  hardly  hold  on  wis  me 
to  de  hannle.  I  was  laugh  good  some  more. 
When  de  old  villain  see  us  have  fun,  he's  yell: 
'I'll  learn  you  bose  one  lesson  for  this.  Pull 
me  ashore!' 


68  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"  'Oh!  you's  learn  us  bose  one  lesson,  M'sieu 
Savarin,  eh?'  Alphonsine  she's  say.  'Well,  den, 
us  bose  will  learn  M'sieu  Savarin  one  lesson 
first.  Pull  him  up  a  little,'  she's  say  to  me. 

"So  we  pull  him  up,  an'  den  Alphonsine 
she's  say  to  me:  'Let  out  de  hannle,  quick'- 
and  he's  under  de  water  some  more.     When 
we  stop  de  net,  he's  got  hees  head  up  pretty 
quick. 

"  'Monjee!  Ill  be  drown'  if  you  don't  pull 
me  out,'  he's  mos'  cry. 

"  'Ver'  well — if  you's  drown,  your  family  be 
ver'  glad,'  Alphonsine  she's  say.  'Den  they's 
got  all  your  money  for  spend  quick,  quick.' 

"M'sieu,  dat  scare  him  offle.  He's  begin  for 
cry  like  one  baby. 

'  'Save  me  out,'  he's  say.    'I'll  give  you  any- 
thing I've  got.' 

'  'How  much?'  Alphonsine  she's  say. 

"He's  tink,  and  he's  say,  'Quarter  dollar.' 

"Alphonsine  an'  me  is  laugh,  laugh. 

"  'Save  me,'  he's  cry  some  more.  'I  hain't 
fit  for  die  dis  mawny.' 

'You  hain't  fit  for  live  no  mawny,'  Alphon- 
sine she's  say.  'One  quarter  dollar,  eh? 
Where's  my  sturgeon?' 

"  'He's  got  away  when  I  fall  in,'  he's  say. 


OLD   MAN    SAVAEIN  69 

'  'How  much  you  goin'  give  me  for  lose  my 
big  sturgeon?'  she's  ask. 

'  'How  much  you'll  want,  Alphonsine?' 

"  'Two  dollare.' 

'  'Dat's  too  much  for  one  sturgeon,'  he's 
say.  For  all  he  was  not  feel  fit  for  die,  he 
was  more  'fraid  for  pay  out  his  money. 

'  'Let  him  down  some  more,'  Alphonsine 
she's  say. 

'  'Oh,  miser e,  miser e!  I'll  pay  de  two  dol- 
lare,' he's  say  when  his  head  come  up  some 
more. 

"  'Ver'  well,  den,'  Alphonsine  she's  say;  'I'll 
be  willin'  for  save  you,  me.  But  you  hain't 
scooped  by  me.  You's  in  Marie's  net.  I'll 
only  come  for  help  Marie.  You's  her  stur- 
geon'; an'  Alphonsine  she's  laugh  an'  laugh. 

"  *I  didn't  lost  no  sturgeon  for  Marie,'  he's 
say. 

"  'No,  eh?'  I'll  say  mysef.  'But  you's  steal 
my  fader's  platform.  You's  take  his  fishin' 
place.  You's  got  him  fined  two  times.  You's 
make  my  moder  pay  his  bill  wis  my  weddin' 
money.  What  you  goin'  pay  for  all  dat  ?  You 
tink  I'll  be  goin'  for  mos'  kill  mysef  pullin' 
you  out  for  noting?  When  you  ever  do  some- 


70  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

ting  for  anybody  for  noting,  eh,  M'sieu 
Savarin?' 

'  'How  much  you  want?'  he's  say. 

"  'Ten  dollare  for  de  platform,  dat's  all.' 

"  'Never — dat's  robbery,'  he's  say,  an'  he's 
begin  to  cry  like  ver'  li'll  baby. 

"  'Pull  him  hup,  Marie,  an'  give  him  some 
more,'  Alphonsine  she's  say. 

"But  de  old  rascal  is  so  scare  'bout  dat,  dat 
he's  say  he's  pay  right  off.  So  we's  pull  him 
up  near  to  de  platform,  only  we  hain't  big 
'nuff  fool  for  let  him  out  of  de  net  till  he's  take 
out  his  purse  an'  pay  de  twelve  dollare. 

"Monjee,  M'sieu !  If  ever  you  see  one  angry 
old  rascal!  He  not  even  stop  for  say:  'T'ank 
you  for  save  me  from  be  drown'  dead  in  the 
culbutel3  He's  run  for  his  house  an'  he's  put 
on  dry  clo'es,  and'  he's  go  up  to  de  magistrate 
first  ting  for  learn  me  an'  Alphonsine  one  big 
lesson. 

"But  de  magistrate  hain'  ver'  bad  magis- 
trate. He's  only  laugh  an'  he's  say:— 

'  'M'sieu  Savarin,  de  whole  river  will  be 
laugh  at  you  for  let  two  young  girl  take  eet 
out  of  smart  man  like  you  like  dat.  Hain't  you 
tink  your  life  worth  twelve  dollare?  Didn't 
dey  save  you  from  de  culbute?  Monjee!  I'll 


OLD    MAN    SAVARIN  71 

tink  de  whole  river  not  laugh  so  ver'  bad  if  you 
pay  dose  young  girl  one  hunder  dollare  for 
save  you  so  kind.' 

"  'One  hunder  dollare !'  he's  mos'  cry. 
'Hain't  you  goin'  to  learn  dose  girl  one  lesson 
for  take  advantage  of  me  dat  way?' 

4  'Didn't  you  pay  dose  girl  yoursef  ?  Didn't 
you  took  out  your  purse  yoursef?  Yes,  eh? 
Well,  den,  I'll  goin'  for  learn  you  one  lesson 
yourself,  M'sieu  Savarin,'  de  magistrate  is  say. 
'Dose  two  young  girl  is  ver'  wicked,  eh?  Yes, 
dat's  so.  But  for  why?  Hain't  dey  just  do  to 
you  what  you  been  doin'  ever  since  you  was  in 
beesness?  Don'  I  know?  You  hain'  never  yet 
got  advantage  of  nobody  wisout  you  rob  him 
all  you  can,  an'  dose  wicked  young  girl  only 
act  just  like  you  give  dem  a  lesson  all  your 
life.' 

"An'  de  best  fun  was  de  whole  river  did 
laugh  at  M'sieu  Savarin.  An'  my  fader  and 
Frawce  Seguin  is  laugh  most  of  all,  till  he's 
catch  hup  wis  bose  of  dem  anoder  time.  You 
come  for  see  me  some  more,  an'  I'll  tol'  you 
'bout  dat." 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT 

"HARK  to  Angus!  Man,  his  heart  will  be 
sore  the  night !  In  five  years  I  have  not  heard 
him  playing  'Great  Godfrey's  Lament,'  "  said 
old  Alexander  McTavish,  as  with  him  I  was 
sitting  of  a  June  evening,  at  sundown,  under  a 
wide  apple-tree  of  his  orchard-lawn. 

When  the  sweet  song-sparrows  of  the  Ot- 
tawa valley  had  ceased  their  plaintive  strains, 
Angus  McNeil  began  on  his  violin.  This  night, 
instead  of  "Tullochgorum"  or  "Roy's  Wife" 
or  "The  March  of  the  McNeils,"  or  any  merry 
strathspey,  he  crept  into  an  unusual  movement, 
and  from  a  distance  came  the  notes  of  an  ex- 
ceeding strange  strain  blent  with  the  medita- 
tive murmur  of  the  Rataplan  Rapids. 

I  am  not  well  enough  acquainted  with  musi- 
cal terms  to  tell  the  method  of  that  composition 
in  which  the  wail  of  a  Highland  coronach 
seemed  mingled  with  such  mournful  crooning 
as  I  had  heard  often  from  Indian  voyageurs 
north  of  Lake  Superior.  Perhaps  that  fancy 
sprang  from  my  knowledge  that  Angus  Mc- 
Neil's father  had  been  a  younger  son  of  the 
chief  of  the  McNeil  clan,  and  his  mother  a 

72 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  73 

daughter  of  the  greatest  man  of  the  Cree  na- 
tion. 

"Ay,  but  Angus  is  wae,"  sighed  old  Mc- 
Tavish.  "What  will  he  be  seeing  the  now?  It 
was  the  night  before  his  wife  died  that  he 
played  yon  last.  Come,  we  will  go  up  the  road. 
He  does  be  liking  to  see  the  people  gather  to 
listen." 

We  walked,  maybe  three  hundred  yards,  and 
stood  leaning  against  the  ruined  picket-fence 
that  surrounds  the  great  stone  house  built  by 
Hector  McNeil,  the  father  of  Angus,  when  he 
retired  from  his  position  as  one  of  the  "Big 
Bourgeois"  of  the  famous  Northwest  Fur 
Trading  Company. 

The  huge  square  structure  of  four  stories 
and  a  basement  is  divided,  above  the  ground 
floor,  into  eight  suites,  some  of  four,  and  some 
of  five  rooms.  In  these  suites  the  fur-trader, 
whose  ideas  were  all  patriarchal,  had  designed 
that  he  and  his  Indian  wife,  with  his  seven  sons 
and  their  future  families,  should  live  to  the  end 
of  his  days  and  theirs.  That  was  a  dream  at 
the  time  when  his  boys  were  all  under  nine 
years  old,  and  Godfrey  little  more  than  a  baby 
in  arms. 

The  ground-floor  is  divided  by  a  hall  twenty- 


74  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

five  feet  wide  into  two  long  chambers,  one  in- 
tended to  serve  as  a  dining-hall  for  the  multi- 
tude of  descendants  that  Hector  expected  to 
see  round  his  old  age,  the  other  as  a  withdraw- 
ing-room  for  himself  and  his  wife,  or  for  festive 
occasions.  In  this  mansion  Angus  McNeil 
now  dwelt  alone. 

He  sat  out  that  evening  on  a  balcony  at  the 
rear  of  the  hall,  whence  he  could  overlook  the 
McTavish  place  and  the  hamlet  that  extends  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  further  down  the  Ottawa's 
north  shore.  His  right  side  was  toward  the 
large  group  of  French-Canadian  people  who 
had  gathered  to  hear  him  play.  Though  he 
was  sitting,  I  could  make  out  that  his  was  a 
gigantic  figure. 

"Ay — it  will  be  just  exactly  'Great  God- 
frey's Lament,'  "  McTavish  whispered.  "Weel 
do  I  mind  him  playing  yon  many's  the  night 
after  Godfrey  was  laid  in  the  mools.  Then  he 
played  it  no  more  till  before  his  ain  wife  died. 
What  is  he  seeing  now?  Man,  it's  weel  kenned 
he  has  the  second  sight  at  times.  Maybe  he 
sees  the  pit  digging  for  himself.  He's  the  last 
of  them." 

"Who  was  Great  Godfrey?"  I  asked,  rather 
loudly. 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  75 

Angus  McNeil  instantly  cut  short  the  "La- 
ment," rose  from  his  chair,  and  faced  us. 

"Aleck  McTavish,  who  have  you  with  you?" 
he  called  imperiously. 

"My  young  cousin  from  the  city,  Mr.  Mc- 
Neil," said  McTavish,  with  deference. 

"Bring  him  in.  I  wish  to  spoke  with  you, 
Aleck  McTavish.  The  young  man  that  is  not 
acquaint  with  the  name  of  Great  Godfrey  Mc- 
Neil can  come  with  you.  I  will  be  at  the  great 
door." 

"It's  strange-like,"  said  McTavish,  as  we 
went  to  the  upper  gate.  "He  has  not  asked 
me  inside  for  near  five  years.  I'm  feared  his 
wits  is  disordered,  by  his  way  of  speaking. 
Mind  what  you  say.  Great  Godfrey  was  most 
like  a  god  to  Angus." 

When  Angus  McNeil  met  us  at  the  front 
door  I  saw  he  was  verily  a  giant.  Indeed,  he 
was  a  wee  bit  more  than  six  and  a  half  feet  tall 
when  he  stood  up  straight.  Now  he  was 
stooped  a  little,  not  with  age,  but  with  con- 
sumption,— the  disease  most  fatal  to  men  of 
mixed  white  and  Indian  blood.  His  face  was 
dark  brown,  his  features  of  the  Indian  cast,  but 
his  black  hair  had  not  the  Indian  lankness.  It 
curled  tightly  round  his  grand  head. 


76  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

Without  a  word  he  beckoned  us  on  into  the 
vast  withdrawing  room.  Without  a  word  he 
seated  himself  beside  a  large  oaken  centre- 
table,  and  motioned  us  to  sit  opposite. 

Before  he  broke  silence,  I  saw  that  the  win- 
dows of  that  great  chamber  were  hung  with 
faded  red  damask;  that  the  heads  of  many  a 
bull  moose,  buck,  bear,  and  wolf  grinned  among 
guns  and  swords  and  claymores  from  its  walls ; 
that  charred  logs,  fully  fifteen  feet  long,  re- 
mained in  the  fireplace  from  the  last  winter's 
burning;  that  there  were  three  dim  portraits 
in  oil  over  the  mantel ;  that  the  room  contained 
much  frayed  furniture,  once  sumptuous  of  red 
velvet;  and  that  many  skins  of  wild  beasts  lay 
strewn  over  a  hard- wood  floor  whose  edges  still 
retained  their  polish  and  faintly  gleamed  in 
rays  from  the  red  west. 

That  light  was  enough  to  show  that  two  of 
the  oil  paintings  must  be  those  of  Hector  Mc- 
Neil and  his  Indian  wife.  Between  these  hung 
one  of  a  singularly  handsome  youth  with  yellow 
hair. 

"Here  my  father  lay  dead,"  cried  Angus 
McNeil,  suddenly  striking  the  table.  He 
stared  at  us  silently  for  many  seconds,  then 
again  struck  the  table  with  the  side  of  his 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  77 

clenched  fist.  "He  lay  here  dead  on  this  table 
—yes!  It  was  Godfrey  that  straked  him  out 
all  alone  on  this  table.  You  mind  Great  God- 
frey, Aleck  McTavish." 

"Well  I  do,  Mr.  McNeil;  and  your  mother 
yonder, — a  grand  lady  she  was."  McTavish 
spoke  with  curious  humility,  seeming  wishful, 
I  thought,  to  comfort  McNeil's  sorrow  by  ex- 
citing his  pride. 

"Ay — they'll  tell  hereafter  that  she  was  just 
exactly  a  squaw,"  cried  the  big  man,  angrily. 
"But  grand  she  was,  and  a  great  lady,  and  a 
proud.  Oh,  man,  man!  but  they  were  proud, 
my  father  and  my  Indian  mother.  And  God- 
frey was  the  pride  of  the  hearts  of  them  both. 
No  wonder;  but  it  was  sore  on  the  rest  of  us 
after  they  took  him  apart  from  our  ways." 

Aleck  McTavish  spoke  not  a  word,  and  big 
Angus,  after  a  long  pause,  went  on  as  if  almost 
unconscious  of  our  presence : — 

"White  was  Godfrey,  and  rosy  of  the  cheek 
like  my  father ;  and  the  blue  eyes  of  him  would 
match  the  sky  when  you'll  be  seeing  it  up 
through  a  blazing  maple  on  a  clear  day  of 
October.  Tall,  and  straight,  and  grand  was 
Godfrey,  my  brother.  What  was  the  thing 
Godfrey  could  not  do?  The  songs  of  him 


78  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

hushed  the  singing-birds  on  the  tree,  and  the 
fiddle  he  would  play  to  take  the  soul  out  of 
your  body.  There  was  not  white  one  among  us 
till  he  was  born. 

"The  rest  of  us  all  were  just  Indians — ay, 
Indians,  Aleck  McTavish.  Brown  we  were, 
and  the  desire  of  us  was  all  for  the  woods  and 
the  river.  Godfrey  had  white  sense  like  my 
father,  and  often  we  saw  the  same  look  in  his 
eyes.  My  God,  but  we  feared  our  father!" 

Angus  paused  to  cough.  After  the  fit  he  sat 
silent  for  some  minutes.  The  voice  of  the  great 
rapid  seemed  to  fill  the  room.  When  he  spoke 
again,  he  stared  past  our  seat  with  fixed,  di- 
lated eyes,  as  if  tranced  by  a  vision. 

"Godfrey,  Godfrey — you  hear!  Godfrey, 
the  six  of  us  would  go  over  the  falls  and  not 
think  twice  of  it,  if  it  would  please  you,  when 
you  were  little.  Oich,  the  joy  we  had  in  the 
white  skin  of  you,  and  the  fine  ways,  till  my 
father  and  mother  saw  we  were  just  making 
an  Indian  of  you,  like  ourselves !  So  they  took 
you  away ;  ay,  and  many's  the  day  the  six  of  us 
went  to  the  woods  and  the  river,  missing  you 
sore.  It's  then  you  began  to  look  on  us  with 
that  look  that  we  could  not  see  was  different 
from  the  look  we  feared  in  the  blue  eyes  of  our 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  79 

father.  Oh,  but  we  feared  him,  Godfrey !  And 
the  time  went  by,  and  we  feared  and  we  hated 
you  that  seemed  lifted  up  above  your  Indian 
brothers!" 

"Oich,  the  masters  they  got  to  teach  him!" 
said  Angus,  addressing  himself  again  to  my 
cousin.  "In  the  Latin  and  the  Greek  they 
trained  him.  History  books  he  read,  and  sto- 
ries in  song.  Ay,  and  the  manners  of  Godfrey ! 
Well  might  the  whole  pride  of  my  father  and 
mother  be  on  their  one  white  son.  A  grand 
young  gentleman  was  Godfrey, — Great  God- 
frey we  called  him,  when  he  was  eighteen. 

"The  fine,  rich  people  that  would  come  up 
in  bateaux  from  Montreal  to  visit  my  father 
had  the  smile  and  the  kind  word  for  Godfrey; 
but  they  looked  upon  us  with  the  eyes  of  the 
white  man  for  the  Indian.  And  that  look  we 
were  more  and  more  sure  was  growing  harder 
in  Godfrey's  eyes.  So  we  looked  back  at  him 
with  the  eyes  of  the  wolf  that  stares  at  the  bull 
moose,  and  is  fierce  to  pull  him  down,  but  dares 
not  try,  for  the  moose  is  too  great  and  lordly. 

"Mind  you,  Aleck  McTavish,  for  all  we 
hated  Godfrey  when  we  thought  he  would  be 
looking  at  us  like  strange  Indians — for  all  that, 
yet  we  were  proud  of  him  that  he  was  our  own 


80  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

brother.  Well,  we  minded  how  he  was  all  like 
one  with  us  when  he  was  little ;  and  in  the  calm 
looks  of  him,  and  the  white  skin,  and  the  yellow 
hair,  and  the  grandeur  of  him,  we  had  pride, 
do  you  understand?  Ay,  and  in  the  strength 
of  him  we  were  glad.  Would  we  not  sit  still 
and  pleased  when  it  was  the  talk  how  he  could 
run  quicker  than  the  best,  and  jump  higher 
than  his  head — ay,  would  we !  Man,  there  was 
none  could  compare  in  strength  with  Great 
Godfrey,  the  youngest  of  us  all! 

"He  and  my  father  and  mother  more  and 
more  lived  by  themselves  in  this  room.  Yonder 
room  across  the  hall  was  left  to  us  six  Indians. 
No  manners,  no  learning  had  we;  we  were  no 
fit  company  for  Godfrey.  My  mother  was  like 
she  was  wilder  with  love  of  Godfrey  the  more 
he  grew  and  the  grander,  and  never  a  word  for 
days  and  weeks  together  did  she  give  to  us.  It 
was  Godfrey  this,  and  Godfrey  that,  and  all 
her  thought  was  Godfrey ! 

"Most  of  all  we  hated  him  when  she  was 
lying  dead  here  on  this  table.  We  six  in  the 
other  room  could  hear  Godfrey  and  my  father 
groan  and  sigh.  We  would  step  softly  to  the 
door  and  listen  to  them  kissing  her  that  was 
dead, — them  white,  and  she  Indian  like  our- 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  81 

selves, — and  us  not  daring  to  go  in  for  the  fear 
of  the  eyes  of  our  father.  So  the  soreness  was 
in  our  hearts  so  cruel  hard  that  we  would  not 
go  in  till  the  last,  for  all  their  asking.  My  God, 
my  God,  Aleck  McTavish,  if  you  saw  her! 
she  seemed  smiling  like  at  Godfrey,  and  she 
looked  like  him  then,  for  all  she  was  brown 
as  November  oak-leaves,  and  he  white  that  day 
as  the  froth  on  the  rapid. 

"That  put  us  farther  from  Godfrey  than 
before.  And  farther  yet  we  were  from  him 
after,  when  he  and  my  father  would  be  walking 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  arm  in  arm,  up 
and  down  the  lawn  in  the  evenings.  They 
would  be  talking  about  books,  and  the  great 
McNeils  in  Scotland.  The  six  of  us  knew  we 
were  McNeils,  for  all  we  were  Indians,  and  we 
would  listen  to  the  talk  of  the  great  pride  and 
the  great  deeds  of  the  McNeils  that  was  our 
own  kin.  We  would  be  drinking  the  whiskey 
if  we  had  it,  and  saying:  'Godfrey  to  be  the 
only  McNeil!  Godfrey  to  take  all  the  pride  of 
the  name  of  us !'  Oh,  man,  man !  but  we  hated 
Godfrey  sore." 

Big  Angus  paused  long,  and  I  seemed  to  see 
clearly  the  two  fair-haired,  tall  men  walking 
arm  in  arm  on  the  lawn  in  the  twilight,  as  if 


82  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

unconscious  or  careless  of  being  watched  and 
overheard  by  six  sore-hearted  kinsmen. 

"You'll  mind  when  my  father  was  thrown 
from  his  horse  and  carried  into  this  room,  Aleck 
McTavish?  Ay,  well  you  do.  But  you  nor 
no  other  living  man  but  me  knows  what  came 
about  the  night  that  he  died. 

"Godfrey  was  alone  with  him.  The  six  of 
us  were  in  yon  room.  Drink  we  had,  but  cau- 
tious we  were  with  it,  for  there  was  a  deed  to 
be  done  that  would  need  all  our  senses.  We 
sat  in  a  row  on  the  floor — we  were  Indians — 
it  was  our  wigwam — we  sat  on  the  floor  to  be 
against  the  ways  of  them  two.  Godfrey  was 
in  here  across  the  hall  from  us;  alone  he  was 
with  our  white  father.  He  would  be  chief  over 
us  by  the  will,  no  doubt, — and  if  Godfrey  lived 
through  that  night  it  would  be  strange. 

"We  were  cautious  with  the  whiskey,  I  told 
you  before.  Not  a  sound  could  we  hear  of 
Godfrey  or  of  my  father.  Only  the  rapid,  call- 
ing and  calling, — I  mind  it  well  that  night. 
Ay,  and  well  I  mind  the  striking  of  the  great 
clock, — tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick, — I  listened 
and  I  dreamed  on  it  till  I  doubted  but  it  was 
the  beating  of  my  father's  heart. 

"Ten  o'clock  was  gone  by,  and  eleven  was 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  83 

near.  How  many  of  us  sat  sleeping  I  know 
not ;  but  I  woke  up  with  a  start,  and  there  was 
Great  Godfrey,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  look- 
ing down  strange  at  us,  and  us  looking  up 
strange  at  him. 

'  'He  is  dead,'  Godfrey  said. 

"We  said  nothing. 

"  'Father  died  two  hours  ago/  Godfrey  said. 

"We  said  nothing. 

'  'Our  father  is  white, — he  is  very  white,' 
Godfrey  said,  and  he  trembled.  'Our  mother 
was  brown  when  she  was  dead.' 

"Godfrey's  voice  was  wild. 

'  'Come,  brothers,  and  see  how  white  is  our 
father,'  Godfrey  said. 

"No  one  of  us  moved. 

'Won't  you  come?  In  God's  name,  come,' 
said  Godfrey.  'Oich — but  it  is  very  strange! 
I  have  looked  in  his  face  so  long  that  now  I  do 
not  know  him  for  my  father.  He  is  like  no 
kin  to  me,  lying  there.  I  am  alone,  alone.' 

"Godfrey  wailed  in  a  manner.  It  made  me 
ashamed  to  hear  his  voice  like  that — him  that 
looked  like  my  father  that  was  always  silent  as 
a  sword — him  that  was  the  true  McNeil. 

'You  look  at  me,  and  your  eyes  are  the 
eyes  of  my  mother,'  says  Godfrey,  staring 


84  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

wilder.  'What  are  you  doing  here,  all  so  still? 
Drinking  the  whiskey?  I  am  the  same  as  you. 
I  am  your  brother.  I  will  sit  with  you,  and  if 
you  drink  the  whiskey,  I  will  drink  the  whis- 
key, too.' 

"Aleck  McTavish!  with  that  he  sat  down  on 
the  floor  in  the  dirt  and  litter  beside  Donald, 
that  was  oldest  of  us  all. 

"  'Give  me  the  bottle,'  he  said.  'I  am  as 
much  Indian  as  you,  brothers.  What  you  do  I 
will  do,  as  I  did  when  I  was  little,  long  ago.' 

"To  see  him  sit  down  in  his  best, — all  his 
learning  and  his  grand  manners  as  if  forgotten, 
— man,  it  was  like  as  if  our  father  himself  was 
turned  Indian,  and  was  low  in  the  dirt! 

"What  was  in  the  heart  of  Donald  I  don't 
know,  but  he  lifted  the  bottle  and  smashed  it 
down  on  the  floor. 

"  'God  in  heaven!  what's  to  become  of  the 
McNeils !  You  that  was  the  credit  of  the  fam- 
ily, Godfrey !'  says  Donald  with  a  groan. 

"At  that  Great  Godfrey  jumped  to  his  feet 
like  he  was  come  awake. 

"  'You're  fitter  to  be  the  head  of  the  Mc- 
Neils than  I  am,  Donald,'  says  he;  and  with 
that  the  tears  broke  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  cast 
himself  into  Donald's  arms.  Well,  with  that 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  85 

we  all  began  to  cry  as  if  our  hearts  would  break. 
I  threw  myself  down  on  the  floor  at  Godfrey's 
feet,  and  put  my  arms  round  his  knees  the  same 
as  I'd  lift  him  up  when  he  was  little.  There  I 
cried,  and  we  all  cried  around  him,  and  after  a 
bit  I  said: — 

'  'Brothers,  this  was  what  was  in  the  mind 
of  Godfrey.  He  was  all  alone  in  yonder.  We 
are  his  brothers,  and  his  heart  warmed  to  us, 
and  he  said  to  himself,  it  was  better  to  be  like 
us  than  to  be  alone,  and  he  thought  if  he  came 
and  sat  down  and  drank  the  whiskey  with  us, 
he  would  be  our  brother  again,  and  not  be  any 
more  alone.' 

'  'Ay,  Angus,  Angus,  but  how  did  you  know 
that?'  says  Godfrey,  crying;  and  he  put  his 
arms  round  my  neck,  and  lifted  me  up  till  we 
were  breast  to  breast.  With  that  we  all  put 
our  arms  some  way  round  one  another  and 
Godfrey,  and  there  we  stood  sighing  and  sway- 
ing and  sobbing  a  long  time,  and  no  man  say- 
ing a  word. 

*  'Oh,  man,  Godfrey  dear,  but  our  father  is 
gone,  and  who  can  talk  with  you  now  about  the 
Latin,  and  the  history  books,  and  the  great 
McNeils — and  our  mother  that's  gone?'  says 
Donald;  and  the  thought  of  it  was  such  pity 
that  our  hearts  seemed  like  to  break. 


86  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"But  Godfrey  said:  'We  will  talk  together 
like  brothers.  If  it  shames  you  for  me  to  be 
like  you,  then  I  will  teach  you  all  they  taught 
me,  and  we  will  all  be  like  our  white  father.' 

"So  we  all  agreed  to  have  it  so,  if  he  would 
tell  us  what  to  do.  After  that  we  came  in  here 
with  Godfrey,  and  we  stood  looking  at  my 
father's  white  face.  Godfrey  all  alone  had 
straked  him  out  on  this  table,  with  the  silver- 
pieces  on  the  eyes  that  we  had  feared.  But 
the  silver  we  did  not  fear.  Maybe  you  will  not 
understand  it,  Aleck  McTavish,  but  our  father 
never  seemed  such  close  kin  to  us  as  when  we 
would  look  at  him  dead,  and  at  Godfrey,  that 
was  the  picture  of  him,  living  and  kind. 

"After  that  you  know  what  happened  your- 
self." 

"Well  I  do,  Mr.  McNeil.  It  was  Great 
Godfrey  that  was  the  father  to  you  all,"  said 
my  cousin. 

"Just  that,  Aleck  McTavish.  All  that  he 
had  was  ours  to  use  as  we  would, — his  land, 
money,  horses,  this  room,  his  learning.  Some 
of  us  could  learn  one  thing  and  some  of  us 
could  learn  another,  and  some  could  learn  noth- 
ing, not  even  how  to  behave.  What  I  could 
learn  was  the  playing  of  the  fiddle.  Many's 


WE  STOOD  LOOKING  AT  MY  FATHER'S  WHITE  FACE 


GEEAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  87 

the  hour  Godfrey  would  play  with  me  while 
the  rest  were  all  happy  around. 

"In  great  content  we  lived  like  brothers,  and 
proud  to  see  Godfrey  as  white  and  fine  and 
grand  as  the  best  gentleman  that  ever  came  up 
to  visit  him  out  of  Montreal.  Ay,  in  great  con- 
tent we  lived  all  together  till  the  consumption 
came  on  Donald,  and  he  was  gone.  Then  it 
came  and  came  back,  and  came  back  again,  till 
Hector  was  gone,  and  Ranald  was  gone,  and 
in  ten  years'  time  only  Godfrey  and  I  were 
left.  Then  both  of  us  married,  as  you  know. 
But  our  children  died  as  fast  as  they  were  born, 
almost, — for  the  curse  seemed  on  us.  Then  his 
wife  died,  and  Godfrey  sighed  and  sighed  ever 
after  that. 

"One  night  I  was  sleeping  with  the  door  of 
my  room  open,  so  I  could  hear  if  Godfrey 
needed  my  help.  The  cough  was  on  him  then. 
Out  of  a  dream  of  him  looking  at  my  father's 
white  face  I  woke  and  went  to  his  bed.  He  was 
not  there  at  all. 

"My  heart  went  cold  with  fear,  for  I  heard 
the  rapid  very  clear,  like  the  nights  they  all 
died.  Then  I  heard  the  music  begin  down 
stairs,  here  in  this  chamber  where  they  were 
all  laid  out  dead, — right  here  on  this  table 


88  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

where  I  will  soon  lie  like  the  rest.  I  leave  it 
to  you  to  see  it  done,  Aleck  McTavish,  for  you 
are  a  Highlandman  by  blood.  It  was  that  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you  when  I  called  you  in.  I 
have  seen  himself  in  my  coffin  three  nights. 
Nay,  say  nothing ;  you  will  see. 

"Hearing  the  music  that  night,  down  I  came 
softly.  Here  sat  Godfrey,  and  the  kindest 
look  was  on  his  face  that  ever  I  saw.  He  had 
his  fiddle  in  his  hand,  and  he  played  about  all 
our  lives. 

"He  played  about  how  we  all  came  down 
from  the  North  in  the  big  canoe  with  my  father 
and  mother,  when  we  were  little  children  and 
him  a  baby.  He  played  of  the  rapids  we  passed 
over,  and  of  the  rustling  of  the  poplar-trees 
and  the  purr  of  the  pines.  He  played  till  the 
river  you  hear  now  was  in  the  fiddle,  with  the 
sound  of  our  paddles,  and  the  fish  jumping  for 
flies.  He  played  about  the  long  winters  when 
we  were  young,  so  that  the  snow  of  those  win- 
ters seemed  falling  again.  The  ringing  of  our 
skates  on  the  ice  I  could  hear  in  the  fiddle.  He 
played  through  all  our  lives  when  we  were 
young  and  going  in  the  woods  yonder  together 
— and  then  it  was  the  sore  lament  began ! 

"It  was  like  as  if  he  played  how  they  kept 


GREAT  GODFREY'S  LAMENT  89 

him  away  from  his  brothers,  and  him  at  his 
books  thinking  of  them  in  the  woods,  and  him 
hearing  the  partridges'  drumming,  and  the 
squirrels'  chatter,  and  all  the  little  birds  singing 
and  singing.  Oich,  man,  but  there's  no  words 
for  the  sadness  of  it !" 

Old  Angus  ceased  to  speak  as  he  took  his 
violin  from  the  table  and  struck  into  the  middle 
of  "Great  Godfrey's  Lament."  As  he  played, 
his  wide  eyes  looked  past  us,  and  the  tears 
streamed  down  his  brown  cheeks.  When  the 
woful  strain  ended,  he  said,  staring  past  us: 
"Ay,  Godfrey,  you  were  always  our  brother." 

Then  he  put  his  face  down  in  his  big  brown 
hands,  and  we  left  him  without  another  word. 


McGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT 

"COME,  then,  childer,"  said  Mrs.  McGrath, 
and  took  the  big  iron  pot  off.  They  crowded 
around  her,  nine  of  them,  the  eldest  not  more 
than  thirteen,  the  youngest  just  big  enough  to 
hold  out  his  yellow  crockery  bowl. 

"The  youngest  first,"  remarked  Mrs.  Mc- 
Grath, and  ladled  out  a  portion  of  the  boiled 
cornmeal  to  each  of  the  deplorable  boys  and 
girls.  Before  they  reached  the  stools  from 
which  they  had  sprung  up,  or  squatted  again 
on  the  rough  floor,  they  all  burned  their  mouths 
in  tasting  the  mush  too  eagerly.  Then  there 
they  sat,  blowing  into  their  bowls,  glaring  into 
them,  lifting  their  loaded  iron  spoons  occasion- 
ally to  taste  cautiously,  till  the  mush  had  some- 
what cooled. 

Then,  gobble-de-gobble-de-gobble,  it  was  all 
gone!  Though  they  had  neither  sugar,  nor 
milk,  nor  butter  to  it,  they  found  it  a  remark- 
ably excellent  sample  of  mush,  and  wished  only 
that,  in  quantity,  it  had  been  something  more. 

Peter  McGrath  sat  close  beside  the  cooking- 
stove,  holding  Number  Ten,  a  girl-baby,  who 

90 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  91 

was  asleep,  and  rocking  Number  Eleven,  who 
was  trying  to  wake  up,  in  the  low,  unpainted 
cradle.  He  never  took  his  eyes  off  Number 
Eleven;  he  could  not  bear  to  look  around  and 
see  the  nine  devouring  the  corn-meal  so  hun- 
grily. Perhaps  McGrath  could  not,  and  cer- 
tainly he  would  not, — he  was  so  obstinate, — 
have  told  why  he  felt  so  reproached  by  the 
scene.  He  had  felt  very  guilty  for  many 
weeks. 

Twenty,  yes,  a  hundred  times  a  day  he 
looked  in  a  dazed  way  at  his  big  hands,  and 
they  reproached  him,  too,  that  they  had  no 
work. 

"Where  is  our  smooth,  broad-axe  handle?" 
asked  the  fingers,  "and  why  do  not  the  wide 
chips  fly?" 

He  was  ashamed,  too,  every  time  he  rose  up, 
so  tall  and  strong,  with  nothing  to  do,  and 
eleven  children  and  his  wife  next  door  to  star- 
vation; but  if  he  had  been  asked  to  describe 
his  feelings,  he  would  merely  have  growled  out 
angrily  something  against  old  John  Pontiac. 

"You'll  take  your  sup  now,  Peter?"  asked 
Mrs.  McGrath,  offering  him  the  biggest  of  the 
yellow  bowls.  He  looked  up  then,  first  at  her 
forlorn  face,  then  at  the  pot.  Number  Nine 


92  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

was  diligently  scraping  off  some  streaks  of 
mush  that  had  run  down  the  outside ;  Numbers 
Eight,  Seven,  Six,  and  Five  were  looking  re- 
spectfully into  the  pot ;  Numbers  Four,  Three, 
Two,  and  One  were  watching  the  pot,  the 
steaming  bowl,  and  their  father  at  the  same 
time.  Peter  McGrath  was  very  hungry. 

"Yourself  had  better  eat,  Mary  Ann,"  he 
said.  "I'll  be  having  mine  after  it's  cooler." 

Mrs.  McGrath  dipped  more  than  a  third  of 
the  bowlful  back  into  the  pot,  and  ate  the  rest 
with  much  satisfaction.  The  numerals  watched 
her  anxiously  but  resignedly. 

''Sure  it'll  be  cold  entirely,  Peter  dear,"  she 
said,  "and  the  warmth  is  so  comforting.  Give 
me  little  Norah  now,  the  darlint!  and  be  after 
eating  your  supper." 

She  had  ladled  out  the  last  spoonful  of  mush, 
and  the  pot  was  being  scraped  inside  earnestly 
by  Nine,  Eight,  Seven,  and  Six.  Peter  took 
the  bowl,  and  looked  at  his  children. 

The  earlier  numbers  were  observing  him 
with  peculiar  sympathy,  putting  themselves  in 
his  place,  as  it  were,  possessing  the  bowl  in 
imagination ;  the  others  now  moved  their  spoons 
absent-mindedly  around  in  the  pot,  brought 
them  empty  to  their  mouths,  mechanically,  now 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  93 

and  again,  sucked  them  more  or  less,  and  still 
stared  steadily  at  their  father. 

His  inner  walls  felt  glued  together,  yet  inde- 
scribably hollow;  the  smell  of  the  mush  went 
up  into  his  nostrils,  and  pungently  provoked 
his  palate  and  throat.  He  was  famishing. 

"Troth,  then,  Mary  Ann,"  he  said,  "there's 
no  hunger  in  me  to-night.  Sure,  I  wish  the 
childer  would  n't  leave  me  the  trouble  of  eating 
it.  Come,  then,  all  of  ye !" 

The  nine  came  promptly  to  his  call.  There 
were  just  twenty- two  large  spoonfuls  in  the 
bowl;  each  child  received  two;  the  remaining 
four  went  to  the  four  youngest.  Then  the  bowl 
was  skilfully  scraped  by  Number  Nine,  after 
which  Number  Seven  took  it,  whirled  a  cup  of 
water  artfully  round  its  interior,  and  with  this 
put  a  fine  finish  on  his  meal. 

Peter  McGrath  then  searched  thoughtfully 
in  his  trousers  pockets,  turning  their  corners 
up,  getting  pinches  of  tobacco  dust  out  of  their 
remotest  recesses;  he  put  his  blouse  pocket 
through  a  similar  process.  He  found  no  pock- 
ets in  his  well-patched  overcoat  when  he  took  it 
down,  but  he  pursued  the  dust  into  its  lining, 
and  separated  it  carefully  from  little  dabs  of 
wool.  Then  he  put  the  collection  into  an  ex- 


94  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

tremely  old  black  clay  pipe,  lifted  a  coal  in  with 
his  fingers,  and  took  his  supper. 

It  would  be  absurd  to  assert  that,  on  this 
continent,  a  strong  man  could  be  so  poor  as 
Peter,  unless  he  had  done  something  very 
wrong  or  very  foolish.  Peter  McGrath  was, 
in  truth,  out  of  work  because  he  had  committed 
an  outrage  on  economics.  He  had  been  guilty 
of  the  enormous  error  of  misunderstanding, 
and  trying  to  set  at  naught  in  his  own  person, 
the  immutable  law  of  supply  and  demand. 

Fancying  that  a  first-class  hewer  in  a  timber 
shanty  had  an  inalienable  right  to  receive  at 
least  thirty  dollars  a  month,  when  the  demand 
was  only  strong  enough  to  yield  him  twenty- 
two  dollars  a  month,  Peter  had  refused  to  en- 
gage at  the  beginning  of  the  winter. 

"Now,  Mr.  McGrath,  you're  making  a  mis- 
take," said  his  usual  employer,  old  John  Pon- 
tiac.  "I'm  offering  you  the  best  wages  going, 
mind  that.  There's  mighty  little  squared  tim- 
ber coming  out  this  winter." 

"I'm  ready  and  willing  to  work,  boss,  but 
I'm  fit  to  arn  thirty  dollars,  surely." 

"So  you  are,  so  you  are,  in  good  times,  neigh- 
bor, and  I'd  be  glad  if  men's  wages  were  forty. 
That  could  only  be  with  trade  active,  and  a 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  95 

fine  season  for  all  of  us;  but  I  couldn't  take 
out  a  raft  this  winter,  and  pay  what  you  ask." 

"I'd  work  extra  hard.  I'm  not  afeard  of 
work." 

"Not  you,  Peter.  There  never  was  a  lazy 
bone  in  your  body.  Don't  I  know  that  well? 
But  look,  now:  if  I  was  to  pay  you  thirty,  I 
should  have  to  pay  all  the  other  hewers  thirty ; 
and  that's  not  all.  Scorers  and  teamsters  and 
road-cutters  are  used  to  getting  wages  in  pro- 
portion to  hewers.  Why,  it  would  cost  me  a 
thousand  dollars  a  month  to  give  you  thirty! 
Go  along,  now,  that's  a  good  fellow,  and  tell 
your  wife  that  you've  hired  with  me." 

But  Peter  did  not  go  back.  "I'm  bound  to 
have  my  rights,  so  I  am,"  he  said  sulkily  to 
Mary  Ann  when  he  reached  the  cabin.  "The 
old  boss  is  getting  too  hard  like,  and  set  on 
money.  Twenty- two  dollars!  No!  I'll  go  in 
to  Stambrook  and  hire." 

Mary  Ann  knew  that  she  might  as  well  try 
to  convince  a  saw-log  that  its  proper  course 
was  up-stream,  as  to  protest  against  Peter's 
obstinacy.  Moreover,  she  did  think  the  offered 
wages  very  low,  and  had  some  hope  he  might 
better  himself;  but  when  he  came  back  from 
Stambrook,  she  saw  trouble  ahead.  He  did 


96  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

not  tell  her  that  there,  where  his  merits  were 
not  known,  he  had  been  offered  only  twenty 
dollars,  but  she  surmised  his  disappointment. 

"You'd  better  be  after  seeing  the  boss  again, 
maybe,  Peter  dear,"  she  said  timidly. 

"Not  a  step,"  he  answered.  "The  boss'll  be 
after  me  in  a  few  days,  you'll  see."  But  there 
he  was  mistaken,  for  all  the  gangs  were  full. 

After  that  Peter  McGrath  tramped  far  and 
wide,  to  many  a  backwoods  hamlet,  looking 
vainly  for  a  job  at  any  wages.  The  season  was 
the  worst  ever  known  on  the  river,  and  before 
January  the  shanties  were  discharging  men, 
so  threatening  was  the  outlook  for  lumbermen, 
and  so  glutted  with  timber  the  markets  of  the 
world. 

Peter's  conscience  accused  him  every  hour, 
but  he  was  too  stubborn  to  go  back  to  John 
Pontiac.  Indeed,  he  soon  got  it  into  his  stupid 
head  that  the  old  boss  was  responsible  for  his 
misfortunes,  and  he  consequently  came  to  hate 
Mr.  Pontiac  very  bitterly. 

After  supping  on  his  pipeful  of  tobacco- 
dust,  Peter  sat,  straight-backed,  leaning  elbows 
on  knees  and  chin  on  hands,  wondering  what  on 
earth  was  to  become  of  them  all  next  day.  For 
a  man  out  of  work  there  was  not  a  dollar  of 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  97 

credit  at  the  little  village  store ;  and  work !  why, 
there  was  only  one  kind  of  work  at  which 
money  could  be  earned  in  that  district  in  the 
winter. 

When  his  wife  took  Number  Eleven's  cradle 
into  the  other  room,  she  heard  him,  through 
the  thin  partition  of  upright  boards,  pasted 
over  with  newspapers,  moving  round  in  the 
dim  red  flickering  fire-light  from  the  stove- 
grating. 

The  children  were  all  asleep,  or  pretending 
it;  Number  Ten  in  the  big  straw  bed,  where 
she  lay  always  between  her  parents;  Number 
Eleven  in  her  cradle  beside;  Nine  crosswise  at 
the  foot ;  Eight,  Seven,  Six,  Five,  and  Four  in 
the  other  bed ;  One,  Two,  and  Three  curled  up, 
without  taking  off  their  miserable  garments,  on 
the  "locks"  of  straw  beside  the  kitchen  stove. 

Mary  Ann  knew  very  well  what  Peter  was 
moving  round  for.  She  heard  him  groan,  so 
low  that  he  did  not  know  he  groaned,  when  he 
lifted  off  the  cover  of  the  meal  barrel,  and 
could  feel  nothing  whatever  therein.  She  had 
actually  beaten  the  meal  out  of  the  cracks  to 
make  that  last  pot  of  mush.  He  knew  that  all 
the  fish  he  had  salted  down  in  the  summer  were 
gone,  that  the  flour  was  all  out,  that  the  last 


98  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

morsel  of  the  pig  had  been  eaten  up  long  ago ; 
but  he  went  to  each  of  the  barrels  as  though  he 
could  not  realize  that  there  was  really  nothing 
left.  There  were  four  of  those  low  groans. 

"O  God,  help  him!  do  help  him!  please  do!" 
she  kept  saying  to  herself.  Somehow,  all  her 
sufferings  and  the  children's  were  light  to 
her,  in  comparison,  as  she  listened  to  that  big, 
taciturn  man  groan,  and  him  sore  with  the 
hunger. 

When  at  last  she  came  out,  Peter  was  not 
there.  He  had  gone  out  silently,  so  silently 
that  she  wondered,  and  was  scared.  She 
opened  the  door  very  softly,  and  there  he  was, 
leaning  on  the  rail  fence  between  their  little 
rocky  plot  and  the  great  river.  She  closed  the 
door  softly,  and  sat  down. 

There  was  a  wide  steaming  space  in  the  river, 
where  the  current  ran  too  swiftly  for  any  ice 
to  form.  Peter  gazed  on  it  for  a  long  while. 
The  mist  had  a  friendly  look;  he  was  soon  re- 
minded of  the  steam  from  an  immense  bowl  of 
mush!  It  vexed  him.  He  looked  up  at  the 
moon.  The  moon  was  certainly  mocking  him ; 
dashing  through  light  clouds,  then  jumping 
into  a  wide,  clear  space,  where  it  soon  became 
motionless,  and  mocked  him  steadily. 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  99 

He  had  never  known  old  John  Pontiac  to 
jeer  any  one,  but  there  was  his  face  in  that 
moon, — Peter  made  it  out  quite  clearly.  He 
looked  up  the  road  to  where  he  could  see,  on 
the  hill  half  a  mile  distant,  the  shimmer  of  John 
Pontiac's  big  tin-roofed  house.  He  thought 
he  could  make  out  the  outlines  of  all  the  build- 
ings,— he  knew  them  so  well, — the  big  barn, 
the  stable,  the  smoke-house,  the  store-house  for 
shanty  supplies. 

Pork  barrels,  flour  barrels,  herring  kegs, 
syrup  kegs,  sides  of  frozen  beef,  hams  and 
flitches  of  bacon  in  the  smoke-house,  bags  of 
beans,  chests  of  tea, — he  had  a  vision  of  them 
all!  Teamsters  going  off  to  the  woods  daily 
with  provisions,  the  supply  apparently  inex- 
haustible. 

And  John  Pontiac  had  refused  to  pay  him 
fair  wages ! 

Peter  in  exasperation  shook  his  big  fist  at 
the  moon;  it  mocked  him  worse  than  ever. 
Then  out  went  his  gaze  to  the  space  of  mist; 
it  was  still  more  painfully  like  mush  steam. 
His  pigsty  was  empty,  except  of  snow ;  it  made 
him  think  again  of  the  empty  barrels  in  the 
cabin. 

The  children  empty  too,  or  would  be  to- 


100  OLD    MAN   SAVABIN    STORIES 

morrow, — as  empty  as  he  felt  that  minute. 
How  dumbly  the  elder  ones  would  reproach 
him!  and  what  would  comfort  the  younger 
ones  crying  with  hunger? 

Peter  looked  again  up  the  hill,  through  the 
walls  of  the  store-house.  He  was  dreadfully 
hungry. 

"John !  John !"  Mrs.  Pontiac  jogged  her  hus- 
band. "John,  wake  up!  there's  somebody 
trying  to  get  into  the  smoke-house." 

"Eh — ugh — ah!  I'm 'sleep — ugh."  Here- 
lapsed  again. 

"John!  John!  wake  up!  There  is  some- 
body!" 

"What — ugh — eh — what  you  say?" 

"There's  somebody  getting  into  the  smoke- 
house." 

"Well,  there's  not  much  there." 

"There's  ever  so  much  bacon  and  ham.  Then 
there's  the  store-house  open." 

"Oh,  I  guess  there's  nobody." 

"But  there  is,  I'm  sure.    You  must  get  up!" 

They  both  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. The  snow-drifts,  the  paths  through 
them,  the  storehouse,  the  smoke-house,  and  the 
other  white-washed  out-buildings  could  be  seen 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  101 

as  clearly  as  in  broad  day.  The  smoke-house 
door  was  open ! 

Old  John  Pontiac  was  one  of  the  kindest 
souls  that  ever  inhabited  a  body,  but  this  was  a 
little  too  much.  Still  he  was  sorry  for  the  man, 
no  matter  who,  in  that  smoke-house, — some 
Indian  probably.  He  must  be  caught  and  dealt 
with  firmly ;  but  he  did  not  want  the  man  to  be 
too  much  hurt. 

He  put  on  his  clothes  and  sallied  forth.  He 
reached  the  smoke-house;  there  was  no  one  in 
it;  there  was  a  gap,  though,  where  two  long 
flitches  of  bacon  had  been! 

John  Pontiac's  wife  saw  him  go  over  to  the 
store-house,  the  door  of  which  was  open  too. 
He  looked  in,  then  stopped,  and  started  back 
as  if  in  horror.  Two  flitches  tied  together  with 
a  rope  were  on  the  floor,  and  inside  was  a  man 
filling  a  bag  with  flour  from  a  barrel. 

"Well,  well!  this  is  a  terrible  thing,'*  said 
old  John  Pontiac  to  himself,  shrinking  around 
a  corner.  "Peter  McGrath !  Oh,  my !  oh,  my  1" 

He  became  hot  all  over,  as  if  he  had  done 
something  disgraceful  himself.  There  was 
nobody  that  he  respected  more  than  that  pig- 
headed Peter.  What  to  do?  He  must  punish 
him  of  course;  but  how?  Jail? — for  him  with 


102  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

eleven  children !  "Oh,  my !  oh,  my !"  Old  John 
wished  he  had  not  been  awakened  to  see  this 
terrible  downfall. 

"It  will  never  do  to  let  him  go  off  with  it," 
he  said  to  himself  after  a  little  reflection.  "I'll 
put  him  so  that  he'll  know  better  another 
time." 

Peter  McGrath,  as  he  entered  the  store- 
house, had  felt  that  bacon  heavier  than  the 
heaviest  end  of  the  biggest  stick  of  timber  he 
had  ever  helped  to  cant.  He  felt  guilty,  sneak- 
ing, disgraced;  he  felt  that  the  literal  Devil 
had  first  tempted  him  near  the  house,  then  all 
suddenly — with  his  own  hunger  pangs  and 
thoughts  of  his  starving  family — swept  him 
into  the  smoke-house  to  steal.  But  he  had  con- 
sented to  do  it ;  he  had  said  he  would  take  flour 
too, — and  he  would,  he  was  so  obstinate !  And 
withal,  he  hated  old  John  Pontiac  worse  than 
ever;  for  now  he  accused  him  of  being  the 
cause  of  his  coming  to  this. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  met  the  face  of  Pon- 
tiac looking  in  at  the  door. 

Peter  sprang  back;  he  saw  Stambrook  jail 
— he  saw  his  eleven  children  and  his  wife — he 
felt  himself  a  detected  felon,  and  that  was  worst 
of  all. 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  103 

"Well,  Peter,  you'd  ought  to  have  come 
right  in,"  were  the  words  that  came  to  his  ears, 
in  John  Pontiac's  heartiest  voice.  "The  missis 
would  have  been  glad  to  see  you.  We  did  go 
to  bed  a  bit  early,  but  there  wouldn't  have  been 
any  harm  in  an  old  neighbor  like  you  waking 
us  up.  Not  a  word  of  that — hold  on !  listen  to 
me.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  old  friends  like  you 
and  me,  Peter,  couldn't  help  one  another  to  a 
trifling  loan  of  provisions  without  making  a 
fuss  over  it."  And  old  John,  taking  up  the 
scoop,  went  on  filling  the  bag  as  if  that  were  a 
matter  of  course. 

Peter  did  not  speak ;  he  could  not. 

"I  was  going  round  to  your  place  to-mor- 
row," resumed  John,  cheerfully,  "to  see  if  I 
couldn't  hire  you  again.  There's  a  job  of  hew- 
ing for  you  in  the  Conlonge  shanty, — a  man 
gone  off  sick.  But  I  can't  give  more'n  twenty- 
two,  or  say  twenty-three,  seeing  you're  an  old 
neighbor.  What  do  you  say?" 

Peter  still  said  nothing ;  he  was  choking. 

"You  had  better  have  a  bit  of  something 
more  than  bacon  and  flour,  Peter,"  he  went  on, 
"and  I'll  give  you  a  hand  to  carry  the  truck 
home.  I  guess  your  wife  won't  mind  seeing 
me  with  you ;  then  she'll  know  that  you've  taken 


104  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

a  job  with  me  again,  you  see.  Come  along  and 
give  me  a  hand  to  hitch  the  mare  up.  I'll  drive 
you  down." 

"Ah — ah — Boss — Boss!"  spoke  Peter  then, 
with  terrible  gasps  between.  "Boss — O,  my 
God,  Mr.  Pontiac — I  can't  never  look  you  in 
the  face  again !" 

"Peter  McGrath  —  old  neighbor,"-  -  and 
John  Pontiac  laid  his  hand  on  the  shaking 
shoulder, — "I  guess  I  know  all  about  it;  I 
guess  I  do.  Sometimes  a  man  is  driven  he  don't 
know  how.  Now  we  will  say  no  more  about  it. 
I'll  load  up,  and  you  come  right  along  with  me. 
And  mind,  I'll  do  the  talking  to  your  wife." 

Mary  Ann  McGrath  was  in  a  terrible  frame 
of  mind.  What  had  become  of  Peter? 

She  had  gone  out  to  look  down  the  road,  and 
had  been  recalled  by  Number  Eleven's  crying. 
Number  Ten  then  chimed  in ;  Nine,  too,  awoke, 
and  determined  to  resume  his  privileges  as  an 
infant.  One  after  another  they  got  up  and 
huddled  around  her — craving,  craving, — all 
but  the  three  eldest,  who  had  been  well  prac- 
tised in  the  stoical  philosophy  by  the  gradual 
decrease  of  their  rations.  But  these  bounced 
up  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  a  grand  jangle  of 
bells. 


MCGRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  105 

Could  it  be  ?  Mr.  Pontiac  they  had  no  doubt 
about;  but  was  that  real  bacon  that  he  laid  on 
the  kitchen  table?  Then  a  side  of  beef,  a  can 
of  tea ;  next  a  bag  of  flour,  and  again  an  actual 
keg  of  sirup.  Why,  this  was  almost  incredible ! 
And,  last,  he  came  in  with  an  immense  round 
loaf  of  bread !  The  children  gathered  about  it ; 
old  John  almost  sickened  with  sorrow  for  them, 
and  hurrying  out  his  jackknife,  passed  big 
hunks  around. 

"Well,  now,  Mrs.  McGrath,"  he  said  during 
these  operations,  "I  don't  hardly  take  it  kindly 
of  you  and  Peter  not  to  have  come  up  to  an  old 
neighbor's  house  before  this  for  a  bit  of  a  loan. 
It's  well  I  met  Peter  to-night.  Maybe  he'd 
never  have  told  me  your  troubles — not  but 
what  I  blame  myself  for  not  suspecting  how  it 
was  a  bit  sooner.  I  just  made  him  take  a  little 
loan  for  the  present.  No,  no ;  don't  be  talking 
like  that!  Charity!  tut!  tut!  it's  just  an  ad- 
vance of  wages.  I've  got  a  job  for  Peter;  he'll 
be  on  pay  to-morrow  again." 

At  that  Mary  Ann  burst  out  crying  again. 
"Oh,  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Pontiac!  it's  a  kind 
man  you  are!  May  the  saints  be  about  your 
bed!" 

With  that  she  ran  out  to  Peter,  who  still 


106  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

stood  by  the  sleigh;  she  put  the  baby  in  his 
arms,  and  clinging  to  her  husband's  shoulder, 
cried  more  and  more. 

And  what  did  obstinate  Peter  McGrath  do? 
Why,  he  cried,  too,  with  gasps  and  groans  that 
seemed  almost  to  kill  him. 

"Go  in,"  he  said;  "go  in,  Mary  Ann — go  in 
— and  kiss — the  feet  of  him.  Yes — and  the 
boards — he  stands  on.  You  don't  know  what 
he's  done — for  me.  It's  broke  I  am — the  bad 
heart  of  me — broke  entirely — with  the  good- 
ness of  him.  May  the  heavens  be  his  bed!" 

"Now,  Mrs.  McGrath,"  cried  old  John, 
"never  you  mind  Peter ;  he's  a  bit  light-headed 
to-night.  Come  away  in  and  get  a  bite  for  him. 
I'd  like  a  dish  of  tea  myself  before  I  go  home." 
Didn't  that  touch  on  her  Irish  hospitality  bring 
her  in  quickly ! 

"Mind  you  this,  Peter,"  said  the  old  man, 
going  out  then,  "don't  you  be  troubling  your 
wife  with  any  little  secrets  about  to-night; 
that's  between  you  and  me.  That's  all  I  ask 
of  you." 

Thus  it  comes  about  that  to  this  day,  when 
Peter  McGrath's  fifteen  children  have  helped 
him  to  become  a  very  prosperous  farmer,  his 
wife  does  not  quite  understand  the  depth  of 


MC  GRATH'S  BAD  NIGHT  107 

worship  with  which  he  speaks  of  old  John  Pon- 
tiac. 

Mrs.  Pontiac  never  knew  the  story  of  the 
night. 

"Never  mind  who  it  was,  Jane,"  John  said, 
turning  out  the  light,  on  returning  to  bed,  "ex- 
cept this, — it  was  a  neighbor  in  sore  trouble." 

"Stealing — and  you  helped  him!  Well, 
John,  such  a  man  as  you  are !" 

"Jane,  I  don't  ever  rightly  know  what  kind 
of  a  man  I  might  be,  suppose  hunger  was  cruel 
on  me,  and  on  you,  and  all  of  us !  Let  us  bless 
God  that  he's  saved  us  from  the  terriblest 
temptations,  and  thank  him  most  especially 
when  he  inclines  our  hearts — inclines  our  hearts 
—that's  all." 


SHINING  CROSS  OF  RIGAUD 


WHEN  Mini  was  a  fortnight  old  his  mother 
wrapped  her  head  and  shoulders  in  her  ragged 
shawl,  snatched  him  from  the  family  litter  of 
straw,  and,  with  a  volley  of  cautionary  objur- 
gations to  his  ten  brothers  and  sisters,  strode 
angrily  forth  into  the  raw  November  weather. 
She  went  down  the  hill  to  the  edge  of  the 
broad,  dark  Ottawa,  where  thin  slices  of  ice 
were  swashing  together.  There  sat  a  hopeless- 
looking  little  man  at  the  clumsy  oars  of  a  flat- 
bottomed  boat. 

"The  little  one's  feet  are  out,"  said  the  man. 

"So  much  the  better!  For  what  was  another 
sent  us?"  cried  Mini's  mother. 

"But  the  little  one  must  be  baptized,"  said 
the  father,  with  mild  expostulation. 

"Give  him  to  me,  then,"  and  the  man  took 
off  his  own  ragged  coat.  Beneath  it  he  had 
nothing  except  an  equally  ragged  guernsey, 
and  the  wind  was  keen.  The  woman  surren- 
dered the  child  carelessly,  and  drawing  her 
shawl  closer,  sat  frowning  moodily  in  the  stern. 

108 


SHINING    CROSS   OF  RIGAUD  109 

Mini's  father  wrapped  him  in  the  wretched 
garment,  carefully  laid  the  infant  on  the  pea- 
straw  at  his  feet,  and  rowed  wearily  away. 

They  took  him  to  the  gray  church  on  the  far- 
ther shore,  whose  tall  cross  glittered  coldly  in 
the  wintry  sun.  There  Madame  Lajeunesse, 
the  skilful  washerwoman,  angry  to  be  taken  so 
long  from  her  tubs,  and  Bonhomme  Hamel, 
who  never  did  anything  but  fish  for  barbotes, 
met  them.  These  highly  respectable  connec- 
tions of  Mini's  mother  had  a  disdain  for  her 
inferior  social  status,  and  easily  made  it  under- 
stood that  nothing  but  a  Christian  duty  would 
have  brought  them  out.  Where  else,  indeed, 
could  the  friendless  infant  have  found  spon- 
sors? It  was  disgraceful,  they  remarked,  that 
the  custom  of  baptism  at  three  days  old  should 
have  been  violated.  While  they  answered  for 
Mini's  spiritual  development  he  was  quiet, 
neither  crying  nor  smiling  till  the  old  priest 
crossed  his  brow.  Then  he  smiled,  and  that, 
Bonhomme  Hamel  remarked,  was  a  blessed 
sign. 

"Now  he's  sure  of  heaven  when  he  does  die!" 
cried  Mini's  mother,  getting  home  again,  and 
tossed  him  down  on  the  straw,  for  a  conclusion 
to  her  sentence. 


110  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

But  the  child  lived,  as  if  by  miracle.  Hun- 
ger, cold,  dirt,  abuse,  still  left  him  a  feeble 
vitality.  At  six  years  old  his  big  dark  eyes 
wore  so  sad  a  look  that  mothers  of  merry  chil- 
dren often  stopped  to  sigh  over  him,  frighten- 
ing the  child,  for  he  did  not  understand  sym- 
pathy. So  unresponsive  and  dumb  was  he  that 
they  called  him  half-witted.  Three  babies 
younger  than  he  had  died  by  then,  and  the 
fourth  was  little  Angelique.  They  said  she 
would  be  very  like  Mini,  and  there  was  reason 
why  in  her  wretched  infancy.  Mini's  was  the 
only  love  she  ever  knew.  When  she  saw  the 
sunny  sky  his  weak  arms  carried  her,  and  many 
a  night  he  drew  over  her  the  largest  part  of  his 
deplorable  coverings.  She,  too,  was  strangely 
silent.  For  days  long  they  lay  together  on  the 
straw,  quietly  suffering  what  they  had  known 
from  the  beginning.  It  was  something  near 
starvation. 

When  Mini  was  eight  years  old  his  mother 
sent  him  one  day  to  beg  food  from  Madame 
Leclaire,  whose  servant  she  had  been  long  ago. 

"It's  Lucile's  Mini,"  said  Madame,  taking 
him  to  the  door  of  the  cosey  sitting-room,  where 
Monsieur  sat  at  solitaire. 

"Mon  Dieu,  did  one  ever  see  such  a  child!" 


SHINING    CROSS   OF  RIGAUD  111 

cried  the  retired  notary.  "For  the  love  of 
Heaven,  feed  him  well,  Marie,  before  you  let 
him  go!" 

But  Mini  could  scarcely  eat.  He  trembled 
at  the  sight  of  so  much  food,  and  chose  a  crust 
as  the  only  thing  familiar. 

"Eat,  my  poor  child.  Have  no  fear,"  said 
Madame. 

"But  Angelique,"  said  he. 

"Angelique?    Is  it  the  baby?" 

"Yes,  Madame,  if  I  might  have  something 
for  her." 

"Poor  little  loving  boy,"  said  Madame,  tears 
in  her  kind  eyes.  But  Mini  did  not  cry ;  he  had 
known  so  many  things  so  much  sadder. 

When  Mini  reached  home  his  mother  seized* 
the  basket.  Her  wretched  children  crowded 
around.  There  were  broken  bread  and  meat 
in  plenty.  "Here — here — and  here  1"  She  dis- 
tributed crusts,  and  chose  a  well-fleshed  bone 
for  her  own  teeth.  Angelique  could  not  walk, 
and  did  not  cry,  so  got  nothing.  Mini,  how- 
ever, went  to  her  with  the  tin  pail  before  his 
mother  noticed  it. 

"Bring  that  back !"  she  shouted. 

"Quick,  baby!"  cried  Mini,  holding  it  that 
Angelique  might  drink.  But  the  baby  was  not 


112  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

quick  enough.  Her  mother  seized  the  pail  and 
tasted;  the  milk  was  still  almost  warm. 
"Good,"  said  she,  reaching  for  her  shawl. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  mother!"  cried  Mini, 
"Madame  said  it  was  for  Angelique."  He 
knew  too  well  what  new  milk  would  trade 
for.  The  woman  laughed  and  flung  on  her 
shawl. 

"Only  a  little,  then;  only  a  cupful,"  cried 
Mini,  clutching  her,  struggling  weakly  to  re- 
strain her.  "Only  a  little  cupful  for  Ange- 
lique." 

"Give  her  bread !"  She  struck  him  so  that  he 
reeled,  and  left  the  cabin.  Then  Mini  cried, 
but  not  for  the  blow. 

He  placed  a  soft  piece  of  bread  and  a  thin 
shred  of  meat  in  Angelique's  thin  little  hand, 
but  she  could  not  eat,  she  was  so  weak.  The 
elder  children  sat  quietly  devouring  their  food, 
each  ravenously  eyeing  that  of  the  others.  But 
there  was  so  much  that  when  the  father  came 
he  also  could  eat.  He,  too,  offered  Angelique 
bread.  Then  Mini  lifted  his  hand  which  held 
hers,  and  showed  beneath  the  food  she  had  re- 
fused. 

"If  she  had  milk!"  said  the  boy. 

"My  God,  if  I  could  get  some,"  groaned  the 


SHINING    CROSS   OF  RIGAUD  113 

man,  and  stopped  as  a  shuffling  and  tumbling 
was  heard  at  the  door. 

"She  is  very  drunk,"  said  the  man,  without 
amazement.  He  helped  her  in,  and,  too  far 
gone  to  abuse  them,  she  soon  lay  heavily  breath- 
ing near  the  child  she  had  murdered. 

Mini  woke  in  the  pale  morning  thinking 
Angelique  very  cold  in  his  arms,  and,  behold, 
she  was  free  from  all  the  suffering  forever.  So 
he  could  not  cry,  though  the  mother  wept  when 
she  awoke,  and  shrieked  at  his  tearlessness  as 
hardhearted. 

Little  Angelique  had  been  rowed  across  the 
great  river  for  the  last  time;  night  was  come 
again,  and  Mini  thought  he  must  die;  it  could 
not  be  that  he  should  be  made  to  live  without 
Angelique !  Then  a  wondrous  thing  seemed  to 
happen.  Little  Angelique  had  come  back.  He 
could  not  doubt  it  next  morning,  for,  with  the 
slowly  lessening  glow  from  the  last  brands  of 
fire  had  not  her  face  appeared? — then  her 
form? — and  lo!  she  was  closely  held  in  the  arms 
of  the  mild  Mother  whom  Mini  knew  from  her 
image  in  the  church,  only  she  smiled  more 
sweetly  now  in  the  hut.  Little  Angelique  had 
learned  to  smile,  too,  which  was  most  wonder- 
ful of  all  to  Mini.  In  their  heavenly  looks  was 


114  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

a  meaning  of  which  he  felt  almost  aware;  a 
mysterious  happiness  was  coming  close  and 
closer;  with  the  sense  of  ineffable  touches  near 
his  brow,  the  boy  dreamed.  Nothing  more  did 
Mini  know  till  his  mother's  voice  woke  him  in 
the  morning.  He  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of 
"Angelique,"  and  gazed  round  upon  the  fa- 
miliar squalor. 

II 

FROM  the  summit  of  Rigaud  Mountain  a 
mighty  cross  flashes  sunlight  all  over  the  great 
plain  of  Vaudreuil.  The  devout  habitant,  as- 
cending from  vale  to  hill-top  in  the  county  of 
Deux  Montagnes,  bends  to  the  sign  he  sees 
across  the  forest  leagues  away.  Far  off  on  the 
brown  Ottawa,  beyond  the  Cascades  of  Caril- 
lon and  the  Chute  a  Blondeau,  the  keen-eyed 
voyageur  catches  its  gleam,  and,  for  gladness 
to  be  nearing  the  familiar  mountain,  more 
cheerily  raises  the  chanson  he  loves.  Near  St. 
Placide  the  early  ploughman — while  yet  mist 
wreathes  the  fields  and  before  the  native  Ros- 
signol  has  fairly  begun  his  plaintive  flourishes 
— watches  the  high  cross  of  Rigaud  for  the  first 
glint  that  shall  tell  him  of  the  yet  unrisen  sun. 
The  wayfarer  marks  his  progress  by  the  bear- 


SHINING    CROSS   OF  RIGAUD  115 

ing  of  that  great  cross,  the  hunter  looks  to  it 
for  an  unfailing  landmark,  the  weatherwise 
farmer  prognosticates  from  its  appearances. 
The  old  watch  it  dwindle  from  sight  at  evening 
with  long  thoughts  of  the  well-beloved  van- 
ished, who  sighed  to  its  vanishing  through  van- 
ished years;  the  dying  turn  to  its  beckoning 
radiance ;  happy  is  the  maiden  for  whose  bridal 
it  wears  brightness ;  blessed  is  the  child  thought 
to  be  that  holds  out  tiny  hands  for  the  glitter- 
ing cross  as  for  a  star.  Even  to  the  most 
worldly  it  often  seems  flinging  beams  of  heaven, 
and  to  all  who  love  its  shining  that  is  a  dark 
day  when  it  yields  no  reflection  of  immortal 
meaning. 

To  Mini  the  Cross  of  Rigaud  had  as  yet  been 
no  more  than  an  indistinct  glimmering,  so  far 
from  it  did  he  live  and  so  dulled  was  he  by  his 
sufferings.  It  promised  him  no  immortal  joys, 
for  how  was  he  to  conceive  of  heaven  except  as 
a  cessation  of  weariness,  starvation,  and  pain? 
Not  till  Angelique  had  come  in  the  vision  did 
he  gain  certainty  that  in  heaven  she  would 
smile  on  him  always  from  the  mild  Mother's 
arms.  As  days  and  weeks  passed  without  that 
dream's  return,  his  imagination  was  ever  the 
more  possessed  by  it.  Though  the  boy  looked 


116  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

frailer  than  ever,  people  often  remarked  with 
amazement  how  his  eyes  wore  some  unspeak- 
able happiness. 

Now  it  happened  that  one  sunny  day  after 
rain  Mini  became  aware  that  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  Cross  of  Rigaud.  He  could  not 
make  out  its  form  distinctly,  but  it  appeared  to 
thrill  toward  him.  Under  his  intent  watching 
the  misty  cross  seemed  gradually  to  become  the 
centre  of  such  a  light  as  had  enwrapped  the 
figures  of  his  dream.  While  he  gazed,  expect- 
ing his  vision  of  the  night  to  appear  in  broad 
day  on  the  far  summit,  the  light  extended, 
changed,  rose  aloft,  assumed  clear  tints,  and 
shifted  quickly  to  a  great  rainbow  encircling 
the  hill. 

Mini  believed  it  a  token  to  him.  That  Ange- 
lique  had  been  there  by  the  cross  the  little 
dreamer  doubted  not,  and  the  transfiguration 
to  that  arch  of  glory  had  some  meaning  that 
his  soul  yearned  to  apprehend.  The  cross  drew 
his  thoughts  miraculously;  for  days  thereafter 
he  dwelt  with  its  shining;  more  and  more  it  was 
borne  in  on  him  that  he  could  always  see  dimly 
the  outline  of  little  Angelique's  face  there; 
sometimes,  staring  very  steadily  for  minutes 
together,  he  could  even  believe  that  she  beck- 
oned and  smiled. 


SHINING    CROSS   OF  RIGAUD  117 

"Is  Angelique  really  there,  father?"  he  asked 
one  day,  looking  toward  the  hill-top. 

"Yes,  there,"  answered  his  father,  thinking 
the  boy  meant  heaven. 

"I  will  go  to  her,  then,"  said  Mini  to  his 
heart. 

Birds  were  not  stirring  when  Mini  stepped 
from  the  dark  cabin  into  gray  dawn,  with  firm 
resolve  to  join  Angelique  on  the  summit.  The 
Ottawa,  with  whose  flow  he  went  toward 
Rigaud,  was  solemnly  shrouded  in  motionless 
mist,  which  began  to  roll  slowly  during  the  first 
hour  of  his  journey.  Lifting,  drifting,  cling- 
ing, ever  thinner  and  more  pervaded  by  sun- 
light, it  was  drawn  away  so  that  the  unruffled 
flood  reflected  a  sky  all  blue  when  he  had  been 
two  hours  on  the  road.  But  Mini  took  no  note 
of  the  river's  beauty.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  cloudy  hilltop,  beyond  which  the  sun  was 
climbing.  As  yet  he  could  see  nothing  of  the 
cross,  nor  of  his  vision ;  yet  the  world  had  never 
seemed  so  glad,  nor  his  heart  so  light  with  joy. 
Habitants.,  in  their  rattling  caleches,  were 
amazed  by  the  glow  in  the  face  of  a  boy  so 
ragged  and  forlorn.  Some  told  afterward  how 
they  had  half  doubted  the  reality  of  his  rags; 


118  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

for  might  not  one,  if  very  pure  at  heart,  have 
been  privileged  to  see  such  garments  of  appar- 
ent meanness  change  to  raiment  of  angelic  tex- 
ture? Such  things  had  been,  it  was  said,  and 
certainly  the  boy's  face  was  a  marvel. 

His  look  was  ever  upward  to  where  fibrous 
clouds  shifted  slowly,  or  packed  to  level  bands 
of  mist  half  concealing  Rigaud  Hill,  as  the  sun 
wheeled  higher,  till  at  last,  in  mid-sky,  it  flung 
rays  that  trembled  on  the  cross,  and  gradually 
revealed  the  holy  sign  outlined  in  upright  and 
arms.  Mini  shivered  with  an  awe  of  expecta- 
tion; but  no  nimbus  was  disclosed  which  his 
imagination  could  shape  to  glorious  signifi- 
cance. Yet  he  went  rapturously  onward,  firm 
in  the  belief  that  up  there  he  must  see  Ange- 
lique  face  to  face. 

As  he  journeyed  the  cross  gradually  lessened 
in  height  by  disappearance  behind  the  nearer 
trees,  till  only  a  spot  of  light  was  left,  which 
suddenly  was  blotted  out  too.  Mini  drew  a 
deep  breath,  and  became  conscious  of  the  great- 
ness of  the  hill, — a  towering  mass  of  brown 
rock,  half  hidden  by  sombre  pines  and  the  deli- 
cate greenery  of  birch  and  poplar.  But  soon, 
because  the  cross  was  hidden,  he  could  figure  it 
all  the  more  gloriously,  and  entertain  all  the 


SHINING   CROSS   OF  RIGAUD  119 

more  luminously  the  belief  that  there  were 
heavenly  presences  awaiting  him.  He  pressed 
on  with  all  his  speed,  and  began  to  ascend  the 
mountain  early  in  the  afternoon. 

"Higher,"  said  the  women  gathering  pearly- 
bloomed  blueberries  on  the  steep  hillside. 
"Higher,"  said  the  path,  ever  leading  the  tired 
boy  upward  from  plateau  to  plateau, — "higher, 
to  the  vision  and  the  radiant  space  about  the 
shining  cross!" 

Faint  with  hunger,  worn  with  fatigue,  in  the 
half -trance  of  physical  exhaustion,  Mini  still 
dragged  himself  upward  through  the  after- 
noon. At  last  he  knew  he  stood  on  the  summit 
level  very  near  the  cross.  There  the  child,  awed 
by  the  imminence  of  what  he  had  sought,  halted 
to  control  the  rapturous,  fearful  trembling  of 
his  heart.  Would  not  the  heavens  surely  open? 
What  words  would  Angelique  first  say?  Then 
again  he  went  swiftly  forward  through  the 
trees  to  the  edge  of  the  little  cleared  space. 
There  he  stood  dazed. 

The  cross  was  revealed  to  him  at  a  few  yards' 
distance.  With  woful  disillusionment  Mini 
threw  himself  face  downward  on  the  rock,  and 
wept  hopelessly,  sorely ;  wept  and  wept,  till  his 
sobs  became  fainter  than  the  up-borne  long 


120  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

notes  of  a  hermit-thrush  far  below  on  the  edge 
of  the  plain. 

A  tall  mast,  with  a  shorter  at  right  angles, 
both  covered  by  tin  roofing-plates,  held  on  by 
nails  whence  rust  had  run  in  streaks, — that  was 
the  shining  Cross  of  Rigaud!  Fragments  of 
newspaper,  crusts  of  bread,  empty  tin  cans, 
broken  bottles,  the  relics  of  many  picnics  scat- 
tered widely  about  the  foot  of  the  cross;  rude 
initial  letters  cut  deeply  into  its  butt  where  the 
tin  had  been  torn  away ; — these  had  Mini  seen. 

The  boy  ceased  to  move.  Shadows  stole 
slowly  lengthening  over  the  Vaudreuil  cham- 
paign; the  sun  swooned  down  in  a  glamour  of 
painted  clouds;  dusk  covered  from  sight  the 
yellows  and  browns  and  greens  of  the  August 
fields;  birds  stilled  with  the  deepening  night; 
Rigaud  Mountain  loomed  from  the  plain,  a 
dark  long  mass  under  a  flying  and  waning 
moon;  stars  came  out  from  the  deep  spaces 
overhead,  and  still  Mini  lay  where  he  had  wept. 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE 

PINNAGER  was  on  snow-shoes,  making  a  bee- 
line  toward  his  field  of  sawlogs  dark  on  the  ice 
of  Wolverine  River.  He  crossed  shanty  roads, 
trod  heaps  of  brush,  forced  his  way  through  the 
tops  of  felled  pines,  jumped  from  little  crags 
into  seven  feet  of  snow — Pinnager's  men  called 
him  "a  terror  on  snow-shoes."  They  never 
knew  the  direction  from  which  he  might  come 
— an  ignorance  which  kept  them  all  busy  with 
axe,  saw,  cant-hook,  and  horses  over  the  two 
square  miles  of  forest  comprising  his  "cut." 

It  was  "make  or  break"  with  Pinnager.  He 
had  contracted  to  put  on  the  ice  all  the  logs  he 
might  make ;  for  every  one  left  in  the  woods  he 
must  pay  stumpage  and  forfeit.  Now  his  axe- 
men had  done  such  wonders  that  Pinnager's 
difficulty  was  to  get  his  logs  hauled  out. 

Teams  were  scarce  that  winter.  The  shanty 
was  eighty  miles  from  any  settlement;  ordinary 
teamsters  were  not  eager  to  work  for  a  small 
speculative  jobber,  who  might  or  might  not  be 
able  to  pay  in  the  spring.  But  Pinnager  had 

some  extraordinary  teamsters,  sons  of  farmers 

121 


122  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

who  neighbored  him  at  home,  and  who  were 
sure  he  would  pay  them,  though  he  should  have 
to  mortgage  his  land. 

The  time  was  late  February;  seven  feet  of 
snow,  crusted,  on  the  level ;  a  thaw  might  turn 
the  whole  forest  floor  to  slush;  but  if  the 
weather  should  "hold  hard"  for  six  weeks 
longer,  Pinnager  might  make  and  not  break. 
Yet  the  chances  were  heavily  against  him. 

Any  jobber  so  situated  would  feel  vexed  on 
hearing  that  one  of  his  best  teams  had  suddenly 
been  taken  out  of  his  service.  Pinnager,  cross- 
ing a  shanty  road  with  the  stride  of  a  moose, 
was  hailed  by  Jamie  Stuart  with  the  news : 

"Hey,  boss,  hold  on!  Davie  McAndrews' 
leg's  broke.  His  load  slewed  at  the  side  hill- 
log  catched  him  against  a  tree." 

"Where  is  he?"  shouted  Pinnager  furiously. 

"Carried  him  to  shanty." 

"Where  are  his  horses?" 

"Stable." 

"Tell  Aleck  Dunbar  to  go  get  them  out.  He 
must  take  Davie's  place — confound  the  lad's 
carelessness !" 

"Davie  says  no;  won't  let  any  other  man 
drive  his  horses." 

"He  won't?    I'll  show  him!"  and  Pinnager 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  123 

made  a  bee-line  for  his  shanty.  He  was  chok- 
ing with  rage,  all  the  more  so  because  he  knew 
that  nothing  short  of  breaking  Davie  McAn- 
drews'  neck  would  break  Davie  McAndrews' 
stubbornness,  a  reflection  that  cooled  Pinnager 
before  he  reached  the  shanty. 

The  cook  was  busy  about  the  caboose  fire, 
getting  supper  for  fifty-three  devourers,  when 
Pinnager  entered  the  low  door,  and  made 
straight  for  one  of  the  double  tier  of  dingy 
bunks.  There  lay  a  youth  of  eighteen,  with  an 
unusual  pallor  on  his  weather-beaten  face,  and 
more  than  the  usual  sternness  about  his  for- 
midable jaw. 

"What's  all  this,  Davie?  You  sure  the  leg's 
broke?  I'd  'a  thought  you  old  enough  to  take 
care." 

"You  would?"  said  Davie  grimly.  "And 
yourself  not  old  enough  to  have  yon  piece  of 
road  mended — you  that  was  so  often  told  about 
it!" 

"When  you  knew  it  was  bad,  the  more  you 
should  take  care." 

"And  that's  true,  Pinnager.  But  no  use  in 
you  and  me  choppin'  words.  I'm  needing  a 
doctor's  hands  on  me.  Can  you  set  a  bone?" 

"No,  I'll  not  meddle  with  it.    Maybe  Jock 


124  OLD    MAN   SAVAHIN    STORIES 

Scott  can ;  but  I'll  send  you  out  home.  A  fine 
loss  I'll  be  at!  Confound  it — and  me  like  to 
break  for  want  of  teams!" 

"I've  thocht  o'  yer  case,  Pinnager,"  said 
Davie,  with  a  curious  judicial  air.  "It's  sore 
hard  for  ye;  I  ken  that  well.  There's  me  and 
me  f eyther's  horses  gawn  off,  and  you  countin' 
on  us.  I  feel  for  ye,  so  I  do.  But  I'll  no  put 
you  to  ony  loss  in  sendin'  me  out." 

"Was  you  thinking  to  tough  it  through  here, 
Davie  ?  No,  you'll  not  chance  it.  Anyway,  the 
loss  would  be  the  same — more,  too.  Why,  if 
I  send  out  for  the  doctor,  there's  a  team  off  for 
full  five  days,  and  the  expense  of  the  doctor! 
Then  he  mightn't  come.  Wow,  no !  it's  out  you 
must  go." 

"What  else?"  said  Davie  coolly.  "Would  I 
lie  here  till  spring  and  my  leg  mendin'  into  the 
Lord  kens  what-like  shape  ?  Would  I  be  lettin' 
ony  ither  drive  the  horses  my  feyther  entrustit 
to  my  lone?  Would  I  be  dependin'  on  Mr. 
Pinnager  for  keep,  and  me  idle?  Man,  I'd  eat 
the  horses'  heads  off  that  way;  at  home  they'd 
be  profit  to  my  feyther.  So  it's  me  and  them 
that  starts  at  gray  the  morn's  morn." 

"Alone!"  exclaimed  Pinnager. 

"Just  that,  man.    What  for  no?" 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  125 

"You're  light-headed,  Davie.  A  lad  with  his 
leg  broke  can't  drive  three  days." 

"Maybe  yes  and  maybe  no.  I'm  for  it,  ony- 
how."  " 

"It  may  snow,  it  may " 

"Aye,  or  rain,  or  thaw,  or  hail;  the  Lord's  no 
in  the  habit  o'  makin'  weather  suit  ony  but  him- 
sel'.  But  I'm  gawn;  the  cost  of  a  man  wi'  me 
would  eat  the  wages  ye 're  owing  my  feyther." 

"I'll  lose  his  team,  anyhow,"  said  Pinnager, 
"and  me  needing  it  bad.  A  driver  with  you 
could  bring  back  the  horses." 

"Nay,  my  feyther  will  trust  his  beasts  to 
nane  but  himsel'  or  his  sons.  But  I'll  have  yer 
case  in  mind,  Pinnager;  it's  a  sore  needcessity 
you're  in.  I'll  ask  my  feyther  to  send  back  the 
team,  and  another  to  the  tail  of  it ;  it's  like  that 
Tarn  and  Neil  will  be  home  by  now.  And  I'll 
spread  word  how  ye're  needin'  teams,  Pinna- 
ger ;  it's  like  your  neighbors  will  send  ye  in  sax 
or  eight  spans." 

"Man,  that's  a  grand  notion,  Davie!  But 
you  can't  go  alone;  it's  clean  impossible." 

"I'm  gawn,  Pinnager." 

"You  can't  turn  out  in  seven  feet  of  snow 
when  you  meet  loading.  You  can't  water  or 
feed  your  horses.  There's  forty  miles  the  sec- 


126  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

ond  day,  and  never  a  stopping-place;  your 
horses  can't  stand  it." 

"I'm  wae  for  the  beasts,  Pinnager;  but 
they'll  have  no  force  but  to  travel  dry  and  hun- 
gry if  that's  set  for  them." 

"You're  bound  to  go?" 

"Div  you  tak'  me  for  an  id  jit  to  be  talkin' 
and  no  meanin'  it  ?  Off  wi'  ye,  man !  The  leg's 
no  exactly  a  comfort  when  I'm  talkin'." 

"Why,  Davie,  it  must  be  hurting  you  terri- 
ble!" Pinnager  had  almost  forgotten  the 
broken  leg,  such  was  Davie's  composure. 

"It's  no  exactly  a  comfort,  I  said.  Get  you 
gone,  Pinnager ;  your  men  may  be  idlin'.  Get 
you  gone,  and  send  in  Jock  Scott,  if  he's  man 
enough  to  handle  my  leg.  I'm  wearyin'  just 
now  for  my  ain  company." 

As  Davie  had  made  his  programme,  so  it 
stood.  His  will  was  inflexible  to  protests. 
Next  morning  at  dawn  they  set  him  on  a  hay- 
bed  in  his  low,  unboxed  sleigh.  A  bag  of  oats 
supported  his  back;  his  unhurt  leg  was  braced 
against  a  piece  of  plank  spiked  down.  Jock 
Scott  had  pulled  the  broken  bones  into  what 
he  thought  their  place,  and  tied  that  leg  up  in 
splints  of  cedar. 

The  sleigh  was  enclosed  by  stakes,  four  on 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  127 

each  side,  all  tied  together  by  stout  rope.  The 
stake  at  Davie's  right  hand  was  shortened,  that 
he  might  hang  his  reins  there.  His  water- 
bucket  was  tied  to  another  stake,  and  his  bag 
of  provisions  to  a  third.  He  was  warm  in  a 
coon-skin  coat,  and  four  pairs  of  blankets  under 
or  over  him. 

At  the  last  moment  Pinnager  protested:  "I 
must  send  a  man  to  drive.  It  sha'n't  cost  you  a 
cent,  Da  vie." 

"Thank  you,  kindly,  Pinnager,"  said  Davie 
gravely.  "I'll  tell  that  to  your  credit  at  the 
settlement.  But  ye're  needin'  all  your  help, 
and  I'd  take  shame  to  worsen  your  chances. 
My  feyther's  horses  need  no  drivin'  but  my 
word." 

Indeed,  they  would  "gee,"  "haw,"  or  "whoa" 
like  oxen,  and  loved  his  voice.  Round-bar- 
relled, deep-breathed,  hardy,  sure-footed,  ac- 
tive, gentle,  enduring,  brave,  and  used  to  the 
exigencies  of  "bush  roads,"  they  would  take 
him  through  safely  if  horses'  wit  could. 

Davie  had  uttered  never  a  groan  after  those 
involuntary  ones  forced  from  him  when  the 
log,  driving  his  leg  against  a  tree,  had  made 
him  almost  unconscious.  But  the  pain-sweat 
stood  beaded  on  his  face  during  the  torture  of 


128  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

carrying  him  to  the  sleigh.  Not  a  sound  from 
his  lips,  though!  They  could  guess  his  suffer- 
ings from  naught  but  his  hard  breathing 
through  the  nose,  that  horrible  sweat,  and  the 
iron  set  of  his  jaw.  After  they  had  placed  him, 
the  duller  agony  that  had  kept  him  awake  all 
night  returned;  he  smiled  grimly,  and  said, 
"That's  a  comfort." 

He  had  eaten  and  drunk  heartily ;  he  seemed 
strong  still;  but  what  if  his  sleigh  should  turn 
over  at  some  sidling  place  of  the  rude,  lonely, 
and  hilly  forest  road? 

As  Davie  chirruped  to  his  horses  and  was  off, 
the  men  gave  him  a  cheer;  then  Pinnager  and 
all  went  away  to  labor  fit  for  mighty  men,  and 
the  swinging  of  axes  and  the  crashing  of  huge 
pines  and  the  tumbling  of  logs  from  rollways 
left  them  fancy-free  to  wonder  how  Davie  could 
ever  brace  himself  to  save  his  broken  leg  at  the 
cahots. 

The  terrible  cahots — plunges  in  snow-roads ! 
But  for  them  Davie  would  have  suffered  little 
more  than  in  a  shanty  bunk.  The  track  was 
mostly  two  smooth  ruts  separated  by  a  ridge 
so  high  and  hard  that  the  sleigh-bottom  often 
slid  on  it.  Horses  less  sure-footed  would  have 
staggered  much,  and  bitten  crossly  at  one  an- 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  129 

other  while  trotting  in  those  deep,  narrow  ruts, 
but  Davie's  horses  kept  their  "jog"  amiably, 
tossing  their  heads  with  glee  to  be  traveling  to- 
ward home. 

The  clink  of  trace-chains,  the  clack  of  har- 
ness, the  glide  of  runners  on  the  hard,  dry 
snow,  the  snorting  of  the  frosty-nosed  team, 
the  long  whirring  of  startled  grouse — Davie 
heard  only  these  sounds,  and  heard  them 
dreamily  in  the  long,  smooth  flights  between 
cahots. 

Overhead  the  pine  tops  were  a  dark  canopy 
with  little  fields  of  clear  blue  seen  through  the 
rifts  of  green ;  on  the  forest  floor  small  firs  bent 
under  rounding  weights  of  snow  which  often 
slid  off  as  if  moved  by  the  stir  of  partridge 
wings ;  the  fine  tracery  of  hemlocks  stood  clean ; 
and  birches  snuggled  in  snow  that  mingled  with 
their  curling  rags.  Sometimes  a  breeze  eddied 
downward  in  the  aisles,  and  then  all  the  under- 
growth was  a  silent  commotion  of  snow,  shaken 
and  falling.  Davie's  eyes  noted  all  things  un- 
consciously; in  spite  of  his  pain  he  felt  the  en- 
chantment of  the  winter  woods  until — another 
cdhot!  he  called  his  team  to  walk. 

Never  was  one  cahot  without  many  in  suc- 
cession; he  gripped  his  stake  hard  at  each, 


130  OLD   MAN   SAVABIN    STORIES 

braced  his  sound  leg,  and  held  on,  feeling  like 
to  die  with  the  horrible  thrust  of  the  broken 
one  forward  and  then  back;  yet  always  his 
will  ordered  his  desperate  senses. 

Eleven  o'clock!  Davie  drew  up  before  the 
half-breed  Peter  Whiteduck's  midwood  stop- 
ping-place, and  briefly  explained  his  situation. 

"Give  my  horses  a  feed,"  he  went  on. 
"There's  oats  in  this  bag.  I'll  no  be  moved 
mysel'.  Maybe  you'll  fetch  me  a  tin  of  tea; 
I've  got  my  own  provisions."  So  he  ate  and 
drank  in  the  zero  weather. 

"You'll  took  lil'  drink  of  whiskey,"  said 
Peter,  with  commiseration,  as  Davie  was  start- 
ing away. 

"I  don't  use  it." 

"You'll  got  for  need  some  'fore  you'll  see  de 
Widow  Green  place.  Dass  twenty-tree  mile." 

"I  will  need  it,  then,"  said  Davie,  and  was 
away. 

Evening  had  closed  in  when  the  bunch  of 
teamsters  awaiting  supper  at  Widow  Green's 
rude  inn  heard  sleigh-bells,  and  soon  a  shout 
outside : 

"Come  out,  some  one!" 

That  was  an  insolence  in  the  teamsters'  code. 
Come  out,  indeed!  The  Widow  Green,  bust- 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  131 

ling  about  with  fried  pork,  felt  outraged.  To 
be  called  out ! — of  her  own  house ! — like  a  dog ! 
— not  she ! 

"Come  out  here,  somebody!"  Davie  shouted 
again. 

"G'  out  and  break  his  head  one  of  you,"  said 
fighting  Moses  Frost.  "To  be  shoutin'  like  a 
lord !"  Moses  was  too  great  a  personage  to  go 
out  and  wreak  vengeance  on  an  unknown. 

Narcisse  Larocque  went — to  thrash  anybody 
would  be  glory  for  Narcisse,  and  he  felt  sure 
that  Moses  would  not,  in  these  circumstances, 
let  anybody  thrash  him. 

"What  for  you  shout  lak'  dat?  Call  mans 
hout,  hey?"  said  Narcisse.  "I'll  got  good  mind 
for  broke  your  head,  me!" 

"Hi,  there,  men!"  Davie  ignored  Narcisse 
as  he  saw  figures  through  the  open  door. 
"Some  white  man  come  out.  My  leg's  broke." 

Oh,  then  the  up-jumping  of  big  men !  Moses, 
striding  forth,  ruthlessly  shoved  Narcisse,  who 
lay  and  cowered  with  legs  up  as  a  dog  trying 
to  placate  an  angry  master.  Then  Moses  car- 
ried Davie  in  as  gently  as  if  the  young  stalwart 
had  been  a  girl  baby,  and  laid  him  on  the 
widow's  one  spare  bed. 

That  night  Davie  slept  soundly  for  four 


132  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

hours,  and  woke  to  consciousness  that  his  leg 
was  greatly  swollen.  He  made  no  moan,  but 
lay  in  the  darkness  listening  to  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  teamsters  on  the  floor.  They 
could  do  nothing  for  him ;  why  should  he 
awaken  them?  As  for  pitying  himself,  Davie 
could  do  nothing  so  fruitless.  He  fell  to  plans 
for  getting  teams  in  to  Pinnager,  for  this 
young  Scot's  practical  mind  was  horrified  at 
the  thought  that  the  man  should  fail  financially 
when  ten  horses  might  give  him  a  fine  profit 
for  his  winter's  work. 

Davie  was  away  at  dawn,  every  slight  jolt 
giving  his  swollen  leg  pain  almost  unendurable, 
as  if  edges  of  living  bone  were  griding  together 
and  also  tearing  cavities  in  the  living  flesh ;  but 
he  must  endure  it,  and  well  too,  for  the  team- 
sters had  warned  him  he  must  meet  "strings  of 
loadin'  "  this  day. 

The  rule  of  the  long  one-tracked  road  into 
the  wilderness  is,  of  course,  that  empty  outgo- 
ing sleighs  shall  turn  out  for  incoming  laden 
ones.  Turn  out  into  seven  feet  of  snow !  Davie 
trusted  that  incoming  teamsters  would  handle 
his  floundering  horses,  and  he  set  his  mind  to 
plan  how  they  might  save  him  from  tumbling 
about  on  his  turned-out  sleigh. 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  133 

About  nine  o'clock,  on  a  winding  road,  he 
called,  "Whoa!"  and  his  bays  stood.  A  sleigh 
piled  with  baled  hay  confronted  him  thirty 
yards  distant.  Four  others  followed  closely; 
the  load  drawn  by  the  sixth  team  was  hidden  by 
the  woodland  curve.  No  teamsters  were  vis- 
ible; they  must  be  walking  behind  the  proces- 
sion; and  Davie  wasted  no  strength  in  shout- 
ing. On  came  the  laden  teams,  till  the  steam 
of  the  leaders  mingled  with  the  clouds  blown 
by  his  bays.  At  that  halt  angry  teamsters, 
yelling,  ran  forward  and  sprang,  one  by  one, 
up  on  their  loads,  the  last  to  grasp  reins  being 
the  leading  driver. 

"Turn  out,  you  fool!"  he  shouted.  Then  to 
his  comrades  behind,  "There's  a  blamed  idyit 
don't  know  enough  to  turn  out  for  loading!" 

Davie  said  nothing.  It  was  not  till  one  an- 
gry man  was  at  his  horses'  heads  and  two  more 
about  to  tumble  his  sleigh  aside  that  he  spoke : 

"My  leg  is  broke." 

"Gah!  G'way!  A  man  driving  with  his  leg 
broke!  You're  lying!  Come,  get  out  and 
tramp  down  snow  for  your  horses!  It's  your 
back  ought  to  be  broke — stoppin'  loadin'!" 

"My  leg  is  broke/'  Davie  calmly  insisted. 

"You  mean  it?" 


134  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

Davie  threw  off  his  blankets. 

"Begor,  it  is  broke !"  "And  him  drivin'  him- 
self!" "It's  a  terror!"  "Great  spunk  en- 
tirely !"  Then  the  teamsters  began  planning  to 
clear  the  way. 

That  was  soon  settled  by  Davie's  directions : 
"Tramp  down  the  crust  for  my  horses ;  onhitch 
them ;  lift  my  sleigh  out  on  the  crust ;  pass  on ; 
then  set  me  back  on  the  road." 

Half  an  hour  was  consumed  by  the  operation 
— thrice  repeated  before  twelve  o'clock.  For- 
tunately Davie  came  on  the  last  "string"  of 
teams  halted  for  lunch  by  the  edge  of  a  lake. 
The  teamsters  fed  and  watered  his  horses,  gave 
him  hot  tea,  and  with  great  admiration  saw  him 
start  for  an  afternoon  drive  of  twenty-two 
miles. 

"You'll  not  likely  meet  any  teams,"  they 
said.  "The  last  of  the  'loading'  that's  like  to 
come  in  soon  is  with  ourselves." 

How  Davie  got  down  the  hills,  up  the  hills, 
across  the  rivers  and  over  the  lakes  of  that  ter- 
rible afternoon  he  could  never  rightly  tell. 

"I'm  thinkin'  I  was  light-heided,"  he  said 
afterward.  "/The  notion  was  in  me  somehow 
that  the  Lord  was  lookin'  to  me  to  save  Pinna- 
ger's  bits  of  children.  I'd  waken  out  of  it  at 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  135 

the  cahots — there  was  mair  than  enough.  On 
the  smooth  my  head  would  be  strange-like,  and 
I  mind  but  the  hinder  end  of  my  horses  till  the 
moon  was  high  and  me  stoppit  by  McGraw's." 

During  the  night  at  McGraw's  his  head  was 
cleared  by  some  hours  of  sound  sleep,  and  next 
morning  he  insisted  on  traveling,  though  snow 
was  falling  heavily. 

"My  feyther's  place  is  no  more  than  a  bit- 
tock  ayont  twenty-eight  miles,"  he  said.  "I'll 
make  it  by  three  of  the  clock,  if  the  Lord's 
willin',  and  get  the  doctor's  hands  on  me.  It's 
my  leg  I'm  thinkin'  of  savin'.  And  mind  ye, 
McGraw,  you've  promised  me  to  send  in  your 
team  to  Pinnager." 

Perhaps  people  who  have  never  risen  out  of 
bitter  poverty  will  not  understand  Davie's  keen 
anxiety  about  Pinnager  and  Pinnager's  chil- 
dren; but  the  Me  Andrews  and  Pinnagers  and 
all  their  neighbors  of  "the  Scotch  settlement" 
had  won  up  by  the  tenacious  labor  and  thrift 
of  many  years.  Davie  remembered  well  how, 
in  his  early  boyhood,  he  had  often  craved  more 
food  and  covering.  Pinnager  and  his  family 
should  not  be  thrown  back  into  the  gulf  of  pov- 
erty if  Davie  McAndrews'  will  could  save 
them. 


136  OLD    MAN   SAVAKIN    STORIES 

This  day  his  road  lay  through  a  country 
thinly  settled,  but  he  could  see  few  cabins 
through  the  driving  storm.  The  flagging  horses 
trotted  steadily,  as  if  aware  that  the  road 
would  become  worse  the  longer  they  were  on  it, 
but  about  ten  o'clock  they  inclined  to  stop 
where  Davie  could  dimly  see  a  long  house  and 
a  shed  with  a  team  and  sleigh  standing  in  it. 
Drunken  yells  told  him  this  must  be  Black 
Donald  Donaldson's  notorious  tavern;  so  he 
chirruped  his  horses  onward. 

Ten  minutes  later  yells  and  sleigh-bells  were 
following  him  at  a  furious  pace.  Davie  turned 
head  and  shouted;  still  the  drunken  men 
shrieked  and  came  on.  He  looked  for  a  place 
to  turn  out — none!  He  dared  not  stop  his 
horses  lest  the  gallopers,  now  close  behind  him, 
should  be  over  him  and  his  low  sleigh.  Now  his 
team  broke  into  a  run  at  the  noises,  but  the 
fresh  horses  behind  sped  faster.  The  men  were 
hidden  from  Davie  by  their  crazed  horses.  He 
could  not  rise  to  appeal;  he  could  not  turn  to 
daunt  the  horses  with  his  whip;  their  front- 
hoofs,  rising  high,  were  soon  within  twenty  feet 
of  him.  Did  his  horses  slacken,  the  others 
would  be  on  top  of  him,  kicking  and  tumbling. 

The  cahots  were  numerous;  his  yells  for  a 


DOUR  DAVIE'S  DRIVE  137 

halt  became  so  much  like  screams  of  agony  that 
he  took  shame  of  them,  shut  his  mouth  firmly, 
and  knew  not  what  to  do.  Then  suddenly  his 
horses  swerved  into  the  cross-road  to  the  Scotch 
settlement,  while  the  drunkards  galloped  away 
on  the  main  road,  still  lashing  and  yelling. 
Davie  does  not  know  to  this  day  who  the  men 
were. 

Five  hours  later  David  McAndrews,  the 
elder,  kept  at  home  by  the  snowstorm,  heard 
bells  in  his  lane,  and  looked  curiously  out  of  the 
sitting-room  window. 

"Losh,  Janet!"  he  said,  most  deliberately. 
"I  wasna  expeckin'  Davie;  here  he's  back  wi' 
the  bays." 

He  did  not  hurry  out  to  meet  his  fourth  son, 
for  he  is  a  man  who  hates  the  appearance  of 
haste ;  but  his  wife  did,  and  came  rushing  back 
through  the  kitchen. 

"It's  Davie  himsel'!  He's  back  wi'  his  leg 
broke !  He's  come  a'  the  way  by  his  lone !" 

"Hoot-toot,  woman!    Ye're  daft!" 

"I'm  no  daft;  come  and  see  yoursel'.  Wae's 
me,  my  Davie's  like  to  die!  Me  daft,  indeed! 
Ye'll  need  to  send  Neil  straight  awa'  to  the 
village  for  Doctor  Aberdeen." 

And  so  dour  Davie's  long  drive  was  past. 


138  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

While  his  brother  carried  him  in,  his  will  was 
occupied  with  the  torture,  but  he  had  scarcely 
been  laid  on  his  bed  when  he  said,  very  respect- 
fully— but  faintly — to  his  father: 

"You'll  be  sendin'  Neil  oot  for  the  doctor, 
sir?  Aye;  then  I'd  be  thankfu'  if  you'd  give 
Aleck  leave  to  tak'  the  grays  and  warn  the  set- 
tlement that  Pinnager's  needin'  teams  sorely. 
He's  like  to  make  or  break;  if  he  gets  sax  or 
eight  spans  in  time  he's  a  made  man." 

That  was  enough  for  the  men  of  the  Scotch 
settlement.  Pinnager  got  all  the  help  he 
needed;  and  yet  he  is  far  from  as  rich  to-day 
as  Davie  McAndrews,  the  great  Brazeau  River 
lumberman,  who  walks  a  little  lame  of  his  left 
leg. 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL 

EACH  story  of  the  Shelton  Cotton  Factory 
is  fifteen  feet  between  floors;  there  are  seven 
such  over  the  basement,  and  this  rises  six  feet 
above  the  ground.  The  brick  walls  narrow  to 
eight  inches  as  they  ascend,  and  form  a  parapet 
rising  above  the  roof.  One  of  the  time-keepers 
of  the  factory,  Jack  Hardy,  a  young  man 
about  my  own  age,  often  runs  along  the  brick- 
work, the  practice  giving  him  a  singular  de- 
light that  has  seemed  to  increase  with  his  pro- 
ficiency in  it.  Having  been  a  clerk  in  the 
works  from  the  beginning,  I  have  frequently 
used  the  parapet  for  a  footpath,  and  although 
there  was  a  sheer  fall  of  one  hundred  feet  to 
the  ground,  have  done  it  with  ease  and  without 
dizziness.  Occasionally  Hardy  and  I  have  run 
races,  on  the  opposite  walls,  an  exercise  in 
which  he  invariably  beats  me,  because  I  become 
timid  with  increase  of  pace. 

Hopelessly  distanced  last  Wednesday,  while 
the  men  were  off  at  noon,  I  gave  up  midway, 
and  looking  down,  observed  the  upturned  face 


140  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

of  an  old  man  gazing  at  me  with  parted  lips, 
wide  eyes,  and  an  expression  of  horror  so  start- 
ling that  I  involuntarily  stepped  down  to  the 
bricklayer's  platform  inside.  I  then  saw  that 
the  apparently  frightened  spectator  was  Mr. 
Petherick,  who  had  been  for  some  weeks  pay- 
master and  factotum  for  the  contractors. 

"What's  the  matter,  Petherick?"  I  called 
down.  He  made  no  answer,  but  walking  off 
rapidly,  disappeared  round  the  mill.  Curious 
about  his  demeanor,  I  descended,  and  after 
some  little  seeking  found  him  smoking  alone. 

"You  quite  frightened  me  just  now,  Peth- 
erick," said  I.  "Did  you  think  I  was  a  ghost?" 

"Not  just  that,"  he  replied. 

"Did  you  expect  me  to  fall,  then?" 

"Not  just  that,  either,"  said  he.  The  old 
man  was  clearly  disinclined  to  talk,  and  appar- 
ently much  agitated.  I  began  to  joke  him 
about  his  lugubrious  expression,  when  the  one 
o'clock  bell  rang,  and  he  shuffled  off  hastily  to 
another  quarter. 

.Though  I  .puzzled  awhile  over  the  incident, 
it  soon  passed  so  entirely  from  my  mind  that  I 
was  surprised  when,  passing  Petherick  in  the 
afternoon,  and  intending  to  go  aloft,  he  said, 
as  I  went  by : 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  141 

"Don't  do  it  again,  Mr.  Frazerl" 

"What?"  I  stopped. 

"That!"  he  retorted. 

"Oh!  You  mean  running  on  the  wall," 
said  I. 

"I  mean  going  on  it  at  all!"  he  exclaimed. 
His  earnestness  was  so  marked  that  I  conceived 
a  strong  interest  in  its  cause. 

"I'll  make  a  bargain  with  you,  Mr.  Peth- 
erick.  If  you  tell  me  why  you  advise  me,  I'll 
give  the  thing  up !" 

"Done !"  said  he.  "Come  to  my  cottage  this 
evening,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  strange  adventure 
of  my  own,  though  perhaps  you'll  only  laugh 
that  it's  the  reason  why  it  sickens  me  to  see  you 
fooling  up  there." 

Petherick  was  ready  to  talk  when  Jack  and 
I  sat  down  on  his  doorsteps  that  evening,  and 
immediately  launched  into  the  following  narra- 
tive: 

I  was  born  and  grew  to  manhood  near  the 
highest  cliffs  of  the  Polvydd  coast.  Millions 
of  sea-fowls  make  their  nests  along  the  face  of 
those  wave-worn  precipices.  My  companions 
and  I  used  to  get  much  excitement,  and  some- 
times a  good  deal  of  pocket  money,  by  taking 


142  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN   STORIES 

their  eggs.  One  of  us,  placing  his  feet  in  a 
loop  at  the  end  of  a  rope  and  taking  a  good 
grip  with  his  hands,  would  be  lowered  by  the 
others  to  the  nest.  When  he  had  his  basket  full 
they'd  haul  him  up  and  another  would  go  down. 

Well,  one  afternoon  I  thus  went  dangling 
off.  They  paid  out  about  a  hundred  feet  of 
rope  before  I  touched  the  ledge  and  let  go. 

You  must  know  that  most  of  the  cliffs  along 
that  coast  overhang  the  water.  At  many 
points  one  could  drop  six  hundred  feet  into  the 
sea,  and  then  be  forty  or  fifty  feet  from  the 
base  of  the  rock  he  left.  The  coast  is  scooped 
under  by  the  waves,  and  in  some  places  the  cliff 
wall  is  as  though  it  had  been  eaten  away  by  seas 
once  running  in  on  higher  levels.  There  will 
be  an  overhanging  coping,  then — some  hun- 
dred feet  down — a  ledge  sticking  out  farther 
than  that  of  the  top ;  under  that  ledge  all  will 
be  scooped  away.  In  some  places  there  are 
three  or  four  such  ledges,  each  projecting  far- 
ther than  those  above. 

These  ledges  used  to  fall  away  occasionally, 
as  they  4o  yet,  I  am  told,  for  the  ocean  is  grad- 
ually devouring  that  coast.  Where  they  did 
not  project  farther  than  the  upper  coping,  the 
egg-gatherer  would  swing  like  a  pendulum  on 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  143 

the  rope,  and  get  on  the  rock,  if  not  too  far  in, 
then  put  a  rock  on  the  loop  to  hold  it  till  his 
return.  When  a  ledge  did  project  so  that  one 
could  drop  straight  on  it,  he  hauled  down  some 
slack  and  left  the  rope  hanging.  Did  the  wind 
never  blow  it  off?  Seldom,  and  never  out  of 
reach. 

Well,  the  ledge  I  reached  was  like  this.  It 
was  some  ten  feet  wide ;  it  stuck  out  maybe  six 
feet  farther  than  the  cliff  top;  the  rock  wall 
went  up  pretty  near  perpendicular,  till  near 
the  coping  at  the  ground ;  but  below  the  ledge, 
the  cliff's  face  was  so  scooped  away  that  the 
sea,  five  hundred  feet  below,  ran  in  under  it 
nigh  fifty  feet. 

As  I  went  down,  thousands  of  birds  rose 
from  the  jagged  places  of  the  precipice,  cir- 
cling around  me  with  harsh  screams.  Soon 
touching  the  ledge,  I  stepped  from  the  loop, 
and  drawing  down  a  little  slack,  walked  off 
briskly.  For  fully  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  ledge 
ran  along  the  cliff's  face  almost  as  level  and 
even  in  width  as  that  sidewalk.  I  remember 
fancying  that  it  sloped  outward  more  than 
usual,  but  instantly  dismissed  the  notion, 
though  Gaffer  Pentreath,  the  oldest  man  in 
that  countryside,  used  to  tell  us  that  we  should 


1 44  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

not  get  the  use  of  that  ledge  always.  It  had 
been  as  steady  in  our  time  as  in  his  grand- 
father's, and  we  only  laughed  at  his  prophecies. 
Yet  the  place  of  an  old  filled  fissure  was  marked 
by  a  line  of  grass,  by  tufts  of  weeds  and  small 
bushes,  stretching  almost  as  far  as  the  ledge 
itself,  and  within  a  foot  or  so  of  the  cliff's 
face. 

Eggs  were  not  so  many  as  usual,  and  I  went 
a  long  piece  from  my  rope  before  turning  back. 
Then  I  noticed  the  very  strange  conduct  of  the 
hosts  of  sea-fowls  below.  Usually  there  were 
hundreds,  but  now  there  were  millions  on  the 
wing,  and  instead  of  darting  forth  in  playful 
motions,  they  seemed  to  be  wildly  excited, 
screaming  shrilly,  rushing  out  as  in  terror,  and 
returning  in  masses  as  though  to  alight,  only 
to  wheel  in  dread  and  keep  the  air  in  vast 
clouds. 

The  weather  was  beautiful,  the  sea  like  glass. 
At  no  great  distance  were  two  large  brigs  and, 
nearer,  a  small  yacht  lay  becalmed,  heaving  on 
the  long  billows.  I  could  look  down  her  cabin 
stairway  almost,  and  it  seemed  scarcely  more 
than  a  long  leap  to  her  deck. 

Puzzled  by  the  singular  conduct  of  the  sea- 
birds,  I  soon  stopped  and  set  my  back  against 


BACK  AND  FORWARD  THEY  DASHED 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  145 

the  cliff,  to  rest  while  watching  them.  The  day 
was  deadly  still  and  very  warm. 

I  remember  taking  off  my  cap  and  wiping 
the  sweat  from  my  face  and  forehead  with  my 
sleeve.  While  doing  this,  I  looked  down  in- 
voluntarily to  the  fissure  at  my  feet.  Instantly 
my  blood  almost  froze  with  horror!  There  was 
a  distinct  crack  between  the  inner  edge  of  the 
fissure  and  the  hard-packed,  root-threaded  soil 
with  which  it  was  filled!  Forcibly  I  pressed 
back,  and  in  a  flash  looked  along  the  ledge.  The 
fissure  was  widening  under  my  eyes,  the  rock 
before  me  seemed  sinking  outward,  and  with  a 
shudder  and  a  groan  and  roar,  the  whole  long 
platform  fell  crashing  to  the  sea  below!  I 
stood  on  a  margin  of  rock  scarce  a  foot  wide, 
at  my  back  a  perpendicular  cliff,  and,  five  hun- 
dred feet  below,  the  ocean,  now  almost  hidden 
by  the  vast  concourse  of  wheeling  and  af- 
frighted birds. 

Can  you  believe  that  my  first  sensation  was 
one  of  relief?  I  stood  safe!  Even  a  feeling  of 
interest  held  me  for  some  moments.  Almost 
coolly  I  observed  a  long  and  mighty  wave  roll 
out  from  beneath.  It  went  forth  with  a  high, 
curling  crest — a  solid  wall  of  water !  It  struck 
the  yacht  stern  on,  plunged  down  on  her  deck, 


146  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

smashed  through  her  swell  of  sail,  and  swept 
her  out  of  sight  forever. 

Not  till  then  did  my  thoughts  dwell  entirely 
on  my  own  position ;  not  till  then  did  I  compre- 
hend its  hopelessness!  Now  my  eyes  closed 
convulsively,  to  shut  out  the  abyss  down  which 
my  glance  had  fallen;  shuddering,  I  pressed 
hard  against  the  solid  wall  at  my  back;  an  ap- 
palling cold  slowly  crept  through  me.  My 
reason  struggled  against  a  wild  desire  to  leap ; 
all  the  demons  of  despair  whispered  me  to 
make  an  instant  end.  In  imagination  I  had 
leaped!  I  felt  the  swooning  helplessness  of 
falling  and  the  cold,  upward  rush  of  air ! 

Still  I  pressed  hard  back  against  the  wall  of 
rock,  and  though  nearly  faint  from  terror, 
never  forgot  for  an  instant  the  death  at  my 
feet,  nor  the  utter  danger  of  the  slightest  mo- 
tion. How  long  this  weakness  lasted  I  know 
not;  I  only  know  that  the  unspeakable  horror 
of  that  first  period  has  come  to  me  in  waking 
dreams  many  and  many  a  day  since;  that  I 
have  long  nights  of  that  deadly  fear;  that  to 
think  of  the  past  is  to  stand  again  on  that  nar- 
row foothold ;  and  to  look  around  on  the  earth 
is  often  to  cry  out  with  joy  that  it  widens  away 
from  my  feet. 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  147 

(The  old  man  paused  long.  Glancing  side- 
wise  at  Jack,  I  saw  that  his  face  was  pallid.  I 
myself  had  shuddered  and  grown  cold,  so 
strongly  had  my  imagination  realized  the  aw- 
ful experience  that  Petherick  described.  At 
length  he  resumed  his  story:) 

Suddenly  these  words  flashed  to  my  brain: 
"Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing? 
And  one  of  them  shall  not  fall  on  the  ground 
without  your  Father.  Fear  not,  therefore ;  ye 
are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows."  My 
faculties  were  so  strained  that  I  seemed  to  hear 
the  words.  Indeed,  often  yet  I  think  that  I 
did  truly  hear  a  voice  utter  them  very  near  me. 

Instantly  hope  arose,  consciously  desperate 
indeed;  but  I  became  calm,  resourceful,  capa- 
ble, and  felt  unaccountably  aided.  Careful  not 
to  look  down,  I  opened  my  eyes  and  gazed  far 
away  over  the  bright  sea.  The  rippled  billows 
told  that  a  light  outward  breeze  had  sprung  up. 
Slowly,  and  somewhat  more  distant,  the  two 
brigs  moved  toward  the  horizon.  Turning  my 
head,  I  could  trace  the  narrow  stone  of  my 
footing  to  where  my  rope  dangled,  perhaps 
three  hundred  yards  distant. 

It  seemed  to  hang  within  easy  reach  of  the 
cliff's  face,  and  instantly  I  resolved  and  as 


148  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

instantly  proceeded  to  work  toward  it.  No 
time  remained  for  hesitation.  Night  was  com- 
ing on.  I  reasoned  that  my  comrades  thought 
me  killed.  They  had  probably  gone  to  view 
the  new  condition  of  the  precipice  from  a  lower 
station,  and  on  their  return  would  haul  up  and 
carry  off  the  rope.  I  made  a  move  toward  it. 
Try  to  think  of  that  journey! 

Shuffling  sidewise  very  carefully,  I  had  not 
made  five  yards  before  I  knew  that  I  could  not 
continue  to  look  out  over  that  abyss  without 
glancing  down,  and  that  I  could  not  glance 
down  without  losing  my  senses.  You  have  the 
brick  line  to  keep  eyes  on  as  you  walk  along 
the  factory  wall;  do  you  think  you  could  move 
along  it  erect,  looking  down  as  you  would  have 
to?  Yet  it  is  only  one  hundred  feet  high. 
Imagine  five  more  such  walls  on  top  of  that 
and  you  trying  to  move  sidewise — incapable 
of  closing  your  eyes,  forced  to  look  down,  from 
end  to  end,  yes,  three  times  farther!  Imagine 
you've  got  to  go  on  or  jump  off!  Would  you 
not,  in  an  ecstasy  of  nervous  agitation,  fall  to 
your  knees,  get  down  face  first  at  full  length, 
clutch  by  your  hands,  and  with  your  shut  eyes 
feel  your  way?  I  longed  to  lie  down  and  hold, 
but  of  course  that  was  impossible. 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  149 

The  fact  that  there  was  a  wall  at  my  back 
made  it  worse !  The  cliff  seemed  to  press  out- 
ward against  me.  It  did,  in  fact,  incline  very 
slightly  outward.  It  seemed  to  be  thrusting 
me  off.  Oh,  the  horror  of  that  sensation !  Your 
toes  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and  the  impla- 
cable, calm  mountain  apparently  weighting 
you  slowly  forward. 

(Beads  of  sweat  poured  out  over  his  white 
face  at  the  horror  he  had  called  before  him. 
Wiping  his  lips  nervously  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  looking  askant,  as  at  the  narrow 
pathway,  he  paused  long.  I  saw  its  cruel  edge 
and  the  dark  gleams  of  its  abysmal  water.) 

I  knew  that  with  my  back  to  the  wall  I  could 
never  reach  the  rope.  I  could  not  face  toward 
it  and  step  forward,  so  narrow  was  the  ledge. 
Motion  was  perhaps  barely  possible  that  way, 
but  the  breadth  of  my  shoulders  would  have 
forced  me  to  lean  somewhat  more  outward,  and 
this  I  dared  not  and  could  not  do.  Also,  to  see 
a  solid  surface  before  me  became  an  irresistible 
desire.  I  resolved  to  try  to  turn  round  before 
resuming  the  desperate  journey.  To  do  this 
I  had  to  nerve  myself  for  one  steady  look  at 
my  footing. 

In  the  depths  below  the  myriad  sea-fowl  then 


150  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STOKIES 

rested  on  the  black  water,  which,  though  swell- 
ing more  with  the  rising  wind,  had  yet  an  un- 
broken surface  at  some  little  distance  from  the 
precipice,  while  farther  out  it  had  begun  to 
jump  to  whitecaps,  and  in  beneath  me,  where  I 
could  not  see,  it  dashed  and  churned  with  a 
faint,  pervading  roar  that  I  could  barely  distin- 
guish. Before  the  descending  sun  a  heavy  bank 
of  cloud  had  risen.  The  ocean's  surface  bore 
that  appearance  of  intense  and  angry  gloom 
that  often  heralds  a  storm,  but,  save  the  deep 
murmur  going  out  from  far  below  my  perch, 
all  to  my  hearing  was  deadly  still. 

Cautiously  I  swung  my  right  foot  before  the 
other  and  carefully  edged  around.  For  an  in- 
stant as  my  shoulder  rubbed  up  against  the 
rock,  I  felt  that  I  must  fall.  I  did  stagger,  in 
fact,  but  the  next  moment  stood  firm,  face  to 
the  beetling  cliff,  my  heels  on  the  very  edge, 
and  the  new  sensation  of  the  abyss  behind  me 
no  less  horrible  than  that  from  which  I  had 
with  such  difficulty  escaped.  I  stood  quaking. 
A  delirious  horror  thrilled  every  nerve.  The 
skin  about  my  ears  and  neck,  suddenly  cold, 
shrank  convulsively. 

Wild  with  fear,  I  thrust  forward  my  head 
against  the  rock  and  rested  in  agony.  A  whir 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  151 

and  wind  of  sudden  wings  made  me  conscious 
of  outward  things  again.  Then  a  mad  eager- 
ness to  climb  swept  away  other  feeling,  and  my 
hands  attempted  in  vain  to  clutch  the  rock. 
Not  daring  to  cast  my  head  backward,  I  drew 
it  tortoise-like  between  my  raised  shoulders, 
and  chin  against  the  precipice,  gazed  upward 
with  straining  of  vision  from  under  my  eye- 
brows. 

Far  above  me  the  dead  wall  stretched.  Side- 
wise  glances  gave  me  glimpses  of  the  project- 
ing summit  coping.  There  was  no  hope  in  that 
direction.  But  the  distraction  of  scanning  the 
cliff-side  had  given  my  nerves  some  relief;  to 
my  memory  again  returned  the  promise  of  the 
Almighty  and  the  consciousness  of  his  regard. 
Once  more  my  muscles  became  firm-strung. 

A  cautious  step  sidewise  made  me  know  how 
much  I  had  gained  in  ease  and  security  of  mo- 
tion by  the  change  of  front.  I  made  progress 
that  seemed  almost  rapid  for  some  rods,  and 
even  had  exultation  in  my  quick  approach  to 
the  rope.  Hence  came  freedom  to  think  how  I 
should  act  on  reaching  it,  and  speculation  as 
to  how  soon  my  comrades  would  haul  me  up. 

Then  the  idea  rushed  through  me  that  they 
might  even  yet  draw  it  away  too  soon,  that 


152  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

while  almost  in  my  clutch  it  might  rise  from  my 
hands.  Instantly  all  the  terrors  of  my  position 
returned  with  tenfold  force ;  an  outward  thrust 
of  the  precipice  seemed  to  grow  distinct,  my 
trembling  hands  told  me  that  it  moved  bodily 
toward  me ;  the  descent  behind  me  took  an  un- 
speakable remoteness,  and  from  the  utmost 
depth  of  that  sheer  air  seemed  to  ascend  stead- 
ily a  deadly  and  a  chilling  wind.  But  I  think 
I  did  not  stop  for  an  instant.  Instead  a  de- 
lirium to  move  faster  possessed  me,  and  with 
quick,  sidelong  steps — my  following  foot  strik- 
ing hard  against  that  before — sometimes  on  the 
point  of  stumbling,  stretched  out  like  the  cruci- 
fied, I  pressed  in  mortal  terror  along. 

Every  possible  accident  and  delay  was  pre- 
sented to  my  excited  brain.  What  if  the  ledge 
should  narrow  suddenly  to  nothing?  Now  I 
believed  that  my  heels  were  unsupported  in  air, 
and  I  moved  along  on  tip-toe.  Now  I  was 
convinced  that  the  narrow  pathway  sloped  out- 
ward, that  this  slope  had  become  so  distinct, 
so  increasingly  distinct,  that  I  might  at  any 
moment  slip  off  into  the  void.  But  dominating 
every  consideration  of  possible  disaster  was  still 
that  of  the  need  for  speed,  and  distinct  amid 
all  other  terrors  was  that  sensation  of  the  dead 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  153 

wall  ever  silently  and  inexorably  pressing  me 
outward. 

My  mouth  and  throat  were  choked  with  dry- 
ness,  my  convulsive  lips  parched  and  arid; 
much  I  longed  to  press  them  against  the  cold, 
moist  stone.  But  I  never  stopped.  Faster, 
faster,  more  wildly  I  stepped — in  a  frenzy  I 
pushed  along.  Then  suddenly  before  my  star- 
ing eyes  was  a  well-remembered  edge  of  mossy 
stone,  and  I  knew  that  the  rope  should  be  di- 
rectly behind  me.  Was  it? 

I  glanced  over  my  left  shoulder.  The  rope 
was  not  to  be  seen!  Wildly  I  looked  over  the 
other — no  rope!  Almighty  God!  and  hast 
thou  deserted  me  ? 

But  what !  Yes,  it  moves,  it  sways  in  sight ! 
it  disappears — to  return  again  to  view !  There 
was  the  rope  directly  at  my  back,  swinging  in 
the  now  strong  breeze  with  a  motion  that  had 
carried  it  away  from  my  first  hurried  glances. 
With  the  relief  tears  pressed  to  my  eyes  and, 
face  bowed  to  the  precipice,  almost  forgetful 
for  a  little  time  of  the  hungry  air  beneath,  I 
offered  deep  thanks  to  my  God  for  the  deliver- 
ance that  seemed  so  near. 

(The  old  man's  lips  continued  to  move,  but 
no  sound  came  from  them.    We  waited  silent 


154  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

while,  with  closed  eyes  and  bent  head,  he  re- 
mained absorbed  in  the  recollection  of  that 
strange  minute  of  devoutness.  It  was  some 
moments  before  he  spoke  again:) 

I  stood  there  for  what  now  seems  a  space  of 
hours,  perhaps  half  a  minute  in  reality.  Then 
all  the  chances  still  to  be  run  crowded  upon  me. 
To  turn  around  had  been  an  attempt  almost 
desperate,  before,  and  certainly,  most  certainly, 
the  ledge  was  no  wider  where  I  now  stood. 
Was  the  rope  within  reach?  I  feared  not. 
Would  it  sway  toward  me?  I  could  hope  for 
that. 

But  could  I  grasp  it  should  I  be  saved? 
Would  it  not  yield  to  my  hand,  coming  slowly 
down  as  I  pulled,  unrolling  from  a  coil  above, 
trailing  over  the  ground  at  the  top,  running 
fast  as  its  end  approached  the  edge,  falling  sud- 
denly at  last?  Or  was  it  fastened  to  the  ac- 
customed stake?  Was  any  comrade  near  who 
would  summon  aid  at  my  signal?  If  not,  and 
if  I  grasped  it,  and  if  it  held,  how  long  should 
I  swing  in  the  wind  that  now  bore  the  freshness 
and  tremors  of  an  imminent  gale? 

Again  fear  took  hold  of  me,  and  as  a  despe- 
rate man  I  prepared  to  turn  my  face  once  more 
to  the  vast  expanse  of  water  and  the  nothing 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  155 

beyond  that  awful  cliff.  Closing  my  eyes,  I 
writhed  around  with  I  know  not  what  motions 
till  again  my  back  pressed  the  cliff .  That  was 
a  restful  sensation.  And  now  for  the  decision 
of  my  fate!  I  looked  at  the  rope.  Not  for  a 
moment  could  I  fancy  it  within  my  reach !  Its 
sidewise  swayings  were  not,  as  I  had  expected, 
even  slightly  inward — indeed  when  it  fell  back 
against  the  wind  it  swung  outward  as  though 
the  air  were  eddying  from  the  wall. 

Now  at  last  I  gazed  down  steadily.  Would 
a  leap  be  certain  death?  The  water  was  of 
immense  depth  below.  But  what  chance  of 
striking  it  feet  or  head  first?  What  chance 
of  preserving  consciousness  in  the  descent? 
No,  the  leap  would  be  death ;  that  at  least  was 
clear. 

Again  I  turned  to  the  rope.  I  was  now  per- 
fectly desperate,  but  steady,  nerved  beyond 
the  best  moments  of  my  life,  good  for  an  effort 
surpassing  the  human.  Still  the  rope  swayed 
as  before,  and  its  motion  was  very  regular.  I 
saw  that  I  could  touch  it  at  any  point  of  its 
gyration  by  a  strong  leap. 

But  could  I  grasp  it?  What  use  if  it  were 
not  firmly  secured  above  ?  But  all  time  for  hes- 
itation had  gone  by.  I  knew  too  well  that 


156  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

strength  was  mine  but  for  a  moment,  and  that 
in  the  next  reaction  of  weakness  I  should  drop 
from  the  wall  like  a  dead  fly.  Bracing  myself, 
I  watched  the  rope  steadily  for  one  round,  and 
as  it  returned  against  the  wind,  jumped 
straight  out  over  the  heaving  Atlantic. 

By  God's  aid  I  reached,  touched,  clutched, 
held  the  strong  line.  And  it  held!  Not  abso- 
lutely. Once,  twice,  and  again,  it  gave,  gave, 
with  jerks  that  tried  my  arms.  I  knew  these 
indicated  but  tightening.  Then  it  held  firm 
and  I  swung  turning  in  the  air,  secure  above 
the  waves  that  beat  below. 

To  slide  down  and  place  my  feet  in  the  loop 
was  the  instinctive  work  of  a  moment.  For- 
tunately it  was  of  dimensions  to  admit  my  body 
barely.  I  slipped  it  over  my  thighs  up  to  my 
armpits  just  as  the  dreaded  reaction  of  weak- 
ness came.  Then  I  lost  consciousness. 

When  I  awakened  my  dear  mother's  face 
was  beside  my  pillow,  and  she  told  me  that  I 
had  been  tossing  for  a  fortnight  in  brain  fever. 
Many  weeks  I  lay  there,  and  when  I  got  strong 
found  that  I  had  left  my  nerve  on  that  awful 
cliff-side.  Never  since  have  I  been  able  to  look 
from  a  height  or  see  any  other  human  being  on 
one  without  shuddering. 


PETHERICK'S  PERIL  157 

So  now  you  know  the  story,  Mr.  Frazer,  and 
have  had  your  last  walk  on  the  factory  wall. 

He  spoke  truer  than  he  knew.  His  story 
has  given  me  such  horrible  nightmares  ever 
since  that  I  could  no  more  walk  on  the  high 
brickwork  than  along  that  narrow  ledge  of  the 
distant  Polvydd  coast. 


LITTLE  BAPTISTE 

OTTAWA  RIVER 

MA'AME  BAPTISTE  LAROCQUE  peered  again 
into  her  cupboard  and  her  flour  barrel,  as 
though  she  might  have  been  mistaken  in  her 
inspection  twenty  minutes  earlier. 

"No,  there  is  nothing,  nothing  at  all!"  said 
she  to  her  old  mother-in-law.  "And  no  more 
trust  at  the  store.  Monsieur  Conolly  was  too 
cross  when  I  went  for  corn-meal  yesterday. 
For  sure,  Baptiste  stays  very  long  at  the  shanty 
this  year." 

"Fear  nothing,  Delima,"  answered  the 
bright-eyed  old  woman.  "The  good  God  will 
send  a  breakfast  for  the  little  ones,  and  for  us. 
In  seventy  years  I  do  not  know  Him  to  fail 
once,  my  daughter.  Baptiste  may  be  back  to- 
morrow, and  with  more  money  for  staying  so 
long.  No,  no ;  fear  not,  Delima !  Le  bon  Dieu 
manages  all  for  the  best." 

"That  is  true;  for  so  I  have  heard  always," 
answered  Delima,  with  conviction;  "but  some- 
times le  bon  Dieu  requires  one's  inside  to  pray 

158 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  159 

very  loud.  Certainly  I  trust,  like  you,  Memere; 
but  it  would  be  pleasant  if  He  would  send  the 
food  the  day  before." 

"Ah,  you  are  too  anxious,  like  little  Baptiste 
here,"  and  the  old  woman  glanced  at  the  boy 
sitting  by  the  cradle.  "Young  folks  did  not 
talk  so  when  I  was  little.  Then  we  did  not 
think  there  was  danger  in  trusting  Monsieur  le 
Cure  when  he  told  us  to  take  no  heed  of  the 
morrow.  But  now!  to  hear  them  talk,  one 
might  think  they  had  never  heard  of  le  bon 
Dieu.  The  young  people  think  too  much,  for 
sure.  Trust  in  the  good  God,  I  say.  Break- 
fast and  dinner  and  supper  too  we  shall  all 
have  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  Memere"  replied  the  boy,  who  was 
called  little  Baptiste  to  distinguish  him  from 
his  father.  "Le  bon  Dieu  will  send  an  excel- 
lent breakfast,  sure  enough,  If  I  get  up  very 
early,  and  find  some  good  dore  (pickerel)  and 
catfish  on  the  night-line.  But  if  I  did  not  bait 
the  hooks,  what  then?  Well,  I  hope  there  will  ' 
be  more  to-morrow  than  this  morning,  any- 
way." 

"There  were  enough,"  said  the  old  woman, 
severely.  "Have  we  not  had  plenty  all  day, 
Delima?" 


160  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Delima  made  no  answer.  She  was  in  doubt 
about  the  plenty  which  her  mother-in-law  spoke 
of.  She  wondered  whether  small  Andre  and 
Odillon  and  "Toinette,  whose  heavy  breathing 
she  could  hear  through  the  thin  partition,  would 
have  been  sleeping  so  peacefully  had  little  Bap- 
tiste  not  divided  his  share  among  them  at  sup- 
per-time, with  the  excuse  that  he  did  not  feel 
very  well? 

Delima  was  young  yet, — though  little  Bap- 
tiste  was  such  a  big  boy, — and  would  have 
rested  fully  on  the  positively  expressed  trust  of 
her  mother-in-law,  in  spite  of  the  empty  flour 
barrel,  if  she  had  not  suspected  little  Baptiste 
of  sitting  there  hungry. 

However,  he  was  such  a  strange  boy,  she 
soon  reflected,  that  perhaps  going  empty  did 
not  make  him  feel  bad!  Little  Baptiste  was 
so  decided  in  his  ways,  made  what  in  others 
would  have  been  sacrifices  so  much  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  was  so  much  disgusted  on  being 
'  offered  credit  or  sympathy  in  consequence,  that 
his  mother,  not  being  able  to  understand  him, 
was  not  a  little  afraid  of  him. 

He  was  not  very  formidable  in  appearance, 
however,  that  clumsy  boy  of  fourteen  or  so, 
whose  big  freckled,  good  face  was  now  bent 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  161 

over  the  cradle  where  la  petite  Seraphine  lay 
smiling  in  her  sleep,  with  soft  little  fingers 
clutched  round  his  rough  one. 

"For  sure,"  said  Delima,  observing  the 
baby's  smile,  "the  good  angels  are  very  near. 
I  wonder  what  they  are  telling  her?" 

"Something  about  her  father,  of  course;  for 
so  I  have  always  heard  it  is  when  the  infants 
smile  in  sleep,"  answered  the  old  woman. 

Little  Baptiste  rose  impatiently  and  went 
into  the  sleeping-room.  Often  the  simplicity 
and  sentimentality  of  his  mother  and  grand- 
mother gave  him  strange  pangs  at  heart;  they 
seemed  to  be  the  children,  while  he  felt  very 
old.  They  were  always  looking  for  wonderful 
things  to  happen,  and  expecting  the  saints  and 
le  bon  Dieu  to  help  the  family  out  of  difficulties 
that  little  Baptiste  saw  no  way  of  overcoming 
without  the  work  which  was  then  so  hard  to  get. 
His  mother's  remark  about  the  angels  talking 
to  little  Seraphine  pained  him  so  much  that  he 
would  have  cried  had  he  not  felt  compelled  to 
be  very  much  of  a  man  during  his  father's  ab- 
sence. 

If  he  had  been  asked  to  name  the  spirit  hov- 
ering about,  he  would  have  mentioned  a  very 
wicked  one  as  personified  in  John  Conolly,  the 


162  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

village  storekeeper,  the  vampire  of  the  little 
hamlet  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  Conolly 
owned  the  tavern  too,  and  a  sawmill  up  river, 
and  altogether  was  a  very  rich,  powerful,  and 
dreadful  person  in  little  Baptiste's  view. 
Worst  of  all,  he  practically  owned  the  cabin 
and  lot  of  the  Larocques,  for  he  had  made  big 
Baptiste  give  him  a  bill  of  sale  of  the  place  as 
security  for  groceries  to  be  advanced  to  the 
family  while  its  head  was  away  in  the  shanty; 
and  that  afternoon  Conolly  had  said  to  little 
Baptiste  that  the  credit  had  been  exhausted, 
and  more. 

"No ;  you  can't  get  any  pork,"  said  the  store- 
keeper. "Don't  your  mother  know  that,  after 
me  sending  her  away  when  she  wanted  corn- 
meal  yesterday  ?  Tell  her  she  don't  get  another 
cent's  worth  here." 

"For  why  not?  My  fader  always  he 
pay,"  said  the  indignant  boy,  trying  to  talk 
English. 

"Yes,  indeed!  Well,  he  ain't  paid  this  time. 
How  do  I  know  what's  happened  to  him,  as  he 
ain't  back  from  the  shanty?  Tell  you  what: 
I'm  going  to  turn  you  all  out  if  your  mother 
don't  pay  rent  in  advance  for  the  shanty  to- 
morrow,— four  dollars  a  month." 


LITTLE    BAPTISTE  163 

"What  you  talkin'  so  for?  We  doan'  goin' 
pay  no  rent  for  our  own  house !" 

"You  doan'  goin'  to  own  no  house,"  an- 
swered Conolly,  mimicking  the  boy.  "The 
house  is  mine  any  time  I  like  to  say  so.  If  the 
store  bill  ain't  paid  to-night,  out  you  go  to- 
morrow, or  else  pay  rent.  Tell  your  mother 
that  for  me.  Mosey  off  now.  'Marche,  done!' 
There's  no  other  way." 

Little  Baptiste  had  not  told  his  mother  of 
this  terrible  threat,  for  what  was  the  use  ?  She 
had  no  money.  He  knew  that  she  would  begin 
weeping  and  wailing,  with  small  Andre  and 
Odillon  as  a  puzzled,  excited  chorus,  with 
'Toinette  and  Seraphine  adding  those  baby 
cries  that  made  little  Baptiste  want  to  cry  him- 
self ;  with  his  grandmother  steadily  advising,  in 
the  din,  that  patient  trust  in  le  bon  Dieu  which 
he  could  not  always  entertain,  though  he  felt 
very  wretched  that  he  could  not. 

Moreover,  he  desired  to  spare  his  mother  and 
grandmother  as  long  as  possible.  "Let  them 
have  their  good  night's  sleep,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, with  such  thoughtfulness  and  pity  as  a 
merchant  might  feel  in  concealing  imminent 
bankruptcy  from  his  family.  He  knew  there 
was  but  one  chance  remaining, — that  his  father 


164  OLD    MAN    SAVAKIN    STORIES 

might  come  home  during  the  night  or  next 
morning,  with  his  winter's  wages. 

Big  Baptiste  had  "gone  up"  for  Rewbell  the 
jobber;  had  gone  in  November,  to  make  logs  in 
the  distant  Petawawa  woods,  and  now  the 
month  was  May.  The  "very  magnificent"  pig 
he  had  salted  down  before  going  away  had  been 
eaten  long  ago.  My!  what  a  time  it  seemed 
now  to  little  Baptiste  since  that  pig-killing! 
How  good  the  boudin  (the  blood-puddings) 
had  been,  and  the  liver  and  tender  bits,  and 
what  a  joyful  time  they  had  had!  The  barrel- 
ful  of  salted  pike  and  catfish  was  all  gone  too, 
—which  made  the  fact  that  fish  were  not  biting 
well  this  year  very  sad  indeed. 

Now  on  top  of  all  these  troubles  this  new 
danger  of  being  turned  out  on  the  roadside! 
For  where  are  they  to  get  four  dollars,  or  two, 
or  one  even,  to  stave  Conolly  off?  Certainly 
his  father  was  away  too  long;  but  surely,  surely, 
thought  the  boy,  he  would  get  back  in  time  to 
save  his  home !  Then  he  remembered  with  hor- 
ror, and  a  feeling  of  being  disloyal  to  his  father 
for  remembering,  that  terrible  day,  three  years 
before,  when  big  Baptiste  had  come  back  from 
his  winter's  work  drunk,  and  without  a  dollar, 
having  been  robbed  while  on  a  spree  in  Ottawa. 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  165 

If  that  were  the  reason  of  his  father's  delay 
now,  ah,  then  there  would  be  no  hope,  unless 
le  bon  Dieu  should  indeed  work  a  miracle  for 
them! 

While  the  boy  thought  over  the  situation 
with  fear,  his  grandmother  went  to  her  bed, 
and  soon  afterward  Delima  took  the  little  Ser- 
aphine's  cradle  into  the  sleeping-room.  That 
left  little  Baptiste  so  lonely  that  he  could  not 
sit  still;  nor  did  he  see  any  use  of  going  to  lie 
awake  in  bed  by  Andre  and  Odillon. 

So  he  left  the  cabin  softly,  and  reaching  the 
river  with  a  few  steps,  pushed  off  his  flat-bot- 
tomed boat,  and  was  carried  smartly  up  stream 
by  the  shore  eddy.  It  soon  gave  him  to  the 
current,  and  then  he  drifted  idly  down  under 
the  bright  moon,  listening  to  the  roar  of  the 
long  rapid,  near  the  foot  of  which  their  cabin 
stood.  Then  he  took  to  his  oars,  and  rowed  to 
the  end  of  his  night-line,  tied  to  the  wharf. 
He  had  an  unusual  fear  that  it  might  be  gone, 
but  found  it  all  right,  stretched  taut ;  a  slender 
rope,  four  hundred  feet  long,  floated  here  and 
there  far  away  in  the  darkness  by  flat  cedar 
sticks, — a  rope  carrying  short  bits  of  line,  and 
forty  hooks,  all  loaded  with  excellent  fat, 
wriggling  worms. 


166  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

That  day  little  Baptiste  had  taken  much 
trouble  with  his  night-line;  he  was  proud  of 
the  plentiful  bait,  and  now,  as  he  felt  the 
tightened  rope  with  his  fingers,  he  told  himself 
that  his  well-filled  hooks  must  attract  plenty 
of  fish, — perhaps  a  sturgeon!  Wouldn't  that 
be  grand?  A  big  sturgeon  of  seventy-five 
pounds ! 

He  pondered  the  Ottawa  statement  that 
"there  are  seven  kinds  of  meat  on  the  head  of 
a  sturgeon,"  and,  enumerating  the  kinds,  fell 
into  a  conviction  that  one  sturgeon  at  least 
would  surely  come  to  his  line.  Had  not  three 
been  caught  in  one  night  by  Pierre  Mallette, 
who  had  no  sort  of  claim,  who  was  too  lazy  to 
bait  more  than  half  his  hooks,  altogether  too 
wicked  to  receive  any  special  favors  from  le  bon 
Dieu? 

Little  Baptiste  rowed  home,  entered  the 
cabin  softly,  and  stripped  for  bed,  almost 
happy  in  guessing  what  the  big  fish  would 
probably  weigh. 

Putting  his  arms  around  little  Andre,  he 
tried  to  go  to  sleep ;  but  the  threats  of  Conolly 
came  to  him  with  new  force,  and  he  lay  awake, 
with  a  heavy  dread  in  his  heart. 

How  long  he  had  been  lying  thus  he  did  not 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  167 

know,  when  a  heavy  step  came  upon  the  plank 
outside  the  door. 

"Father's  home!"  cried  little  Baptiste, 
springing  to  the  floor  as  the  door  opened. 

"Baptiste!  my  own  Baptiste!"  cried  Delima, 
putting  her  arms  around  her  husband  as  he 
stood  over  her. 

"Did  I  not  say,"  said  the  old  woman,  seizing 
her  son's  hand,  "that  the  good  God  would  send 
help  in  time?" 

Little  Baptiste  lit  the  lamp.  Then  they  saw 
something  in  the  father's  face  that  startled 
them  all.  He  had  not  spoken,  and  now  they 
perceived  that  he  was  haggard,  pale,  wild- 
eyed. 

"The  good  God!"  cried  big  Baptiste,  and 
knelt  by  the  bed,  and  bowed  his  head  on  his 
arms,  and  wept  so  loudly  that  little  Andre  and 
Odillon,  wakening,  joined  his  cry.  ffLe  bon 
Dieu  has  forgotten  us!  For  all  my  winter's 
work  I  have  not  one  dollar!  The  concern  is 
failed.  Rewbell  paid  not  one  cent  of  wages, 
but  ran  away,  and  the  timber  has  been  seized." 

Oh,  the  heartbreak!  Oh,  poor  Delima!  poor 
children!  and  poor  little  Baptiste,  with  the 
threats  of  Conolly  rending  his  heart ! 

"I  have  walked  all  day,"  said  the  father, 


168  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"and  eaten  not  a  thing.  Give  me  something, 
Delima." 

"O  holy  angels!"  cried  the  poor  woman, 
breaking  into  a  wild  weeping.  "O  Baptiste, 
Baptiste,  my  poor  man!  There  is  nothing; 
not  a  scrap ;  not  any  flour,  not  meal,  not  grease 
even ;  not  a  pinch  of  tea !"  but  still  she  searched 
frantically  about  the  rooms. 

"Never  mind,"  said  big  Baptiste  then,  hold- 
ing her  in  his  strong  arms.  "I  am  not  so  hun- 
gry as  tired,  Delima,  and  I  can  sleep." 

The  old  woman,  who  had  been  swaying  to 
and  fro  in  her  chair  of  rushes,  rose  now,  and 
laid  her  aged  hands  on  the  broad  shoulders  of 
the  man. 

"My  son  Baptiste,"  she  said,  "you  must  not 
say  that  God  has  forgotten  us,  for  He  has  not 
forgotten  us.  The  hunger  is  hard  to  bear,  I 
know, — hard,  hard  to  bear;  but  great  plenty 
will  be  sent  in  answer  to  our  prayers.  And  it  is 
hard,  hard  to  lose  thy  long  winter's  work;  but 
be  patient,  my  son,  and  thankful,  yes,  thankful 
for  all  thou  hast. 

"Behold,  Delima  is  well  and  strong.  See 
the  little  Baptiste,  how  much  a  man !  Yes,  that 
is  right ;  kiss  the  little  Andre  and  Odillon ;  and 
see!  how  sweetly  'Toinette  sleeps!  All  strong 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  169 

and  well,  son  Baptiste!  Were  one  gone,  think 
what  thou  wouldst  have  lost!  But  instead,  be 
thankful,  for  behold,  another  has  been  given, — 
the  little  Seraphine  here,  that  thou  hast  not  be- 
fore seen!" 

Big,  rough,  soft-hearted  Baptiste  knelt  by 
the  cradle,  and  kissed  the  babe  gently. 

"It  is  true,  Memere"  he  answered,  "and  I 
thank  le  bon  Dieu  for  his  goodness  to  me." 

But  little  Baptiste,  lying  wide  awake  for 
hours  afterwards,  was  not  thankful.  He  could 
not  see  that  matters  could  be  much  worse.  A 
big  hard  lump  was  in  his  throat  as  he  thought 
of  his  father's  hunger,  and  the  home-coming 
so  different  from  what  they  had  fondly  counted 
on.  Great  slow  tears  came  into  the  boy's  eyes, 
and  he  wiped  them  away,  ashamed  even  in  the 
dark  to  have  been  guilty  of  such  weakness. 

In  the  gray  dawn  little  Baptiste  suddenly 
awoke,  with  the  sensation  of  having  slept  on 
his  post.  How  heavy  his  heart  was!  Why? 
He  sat  dazed  with  indefinite  sorrow.  Ah,  now 
he  remembered!  Conolly  threatening  to  turn 
them  outl  and  his  father  back  penniless!  No 
breakfast!  Well,  we  must  see  about  that. 

Very  quietly  he  rose,  put  on  his  patched 
clothes,  and  went  out.  Heavy  mist  covered  the 


170  OLD    MAN    SAVABIN    STORIES 

face  of  the  river,  and  somehow  the  rapid  seemed 
stilled  to  a  deep,  pervasive  murmur.  As  he 
pushed  his  boat  off,  the  morning  fog  was  chil- 
lier than  frost  about  him;  but  his  heart  got 
lighter  as  he  rowed  toward  his  night-line,  and 
he  became  even  eager  for  the  pleasure  of  hand- 
ling his  fish.  He  made  up  his  mind  not  to  be 
much  disappointed  if  there  were  no  sturgeon, 
but  could  not  quite  believe  there  would  be  none ; 
surely  it  was  reasonable  to  expect  one,  perhaps 
two — why  not  three? — among  the  catfish  and 
dore. 

How  very  taut  and  heavy  the  rope  felt  as  he 
raised  it  over  his  gunwales,  and  letting  the  bow 
swing  up  stream,  began  pulling  in  the  line  hand 
over  hand !  He  had  heard  of  cases  where  every 
hook  had  its  fish;  such  a  thing  might  happen 
again  surely!  Yard  after  yard  of  rope  he 
passed  slowly  over  the  boat,  and  down  into  the 
water  it  sank  on  his  track. 

Now  a  knot  on  the  line  told  him  he  was  near- 
ing  the  first  hook;  he  watched  for  the  quiver 
and  struggle  of  the  fish, — probably  a  big  one, 
for  there  he  had  put  a  tremendous  bait  on  and 
spat  on  it  for  luck,  moreover.  What  ?  the  short 
line  hung  down  from  the  rope,  and  the  baited 
hook  rose  clear  of  the  water! 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  171 

Baptiste  instantly  made  up  his  mind  that 
that  hook  had  been  placed  a  little  too  far  in- 
shore; he  remembered  thinking  so  before;  the 
next  hook  was  in  about  the  right  place ! 

Hand  over  hand,  ah!  the  second  hook,  too! 
Still  baited,  the  big  worm  very  livid !  It  must 
be  thus  because  that  worm  was  pushed  up  the 
shank  of  the  hook  in  such  a  queer  way :  he  had 
been  rather  pleased  when  he  gave  the  bait  that 
particular  twist,  and  now  was  surprised  at  him- 
self;  why,  any  one  could  see  it  was  a  thing  to 
scare  fish! 

Hand  over  hand  to  the  third, — the  hook  was 
naked  of  bait!  Well,  that  was  more  satisfac- 
tory ;  it  showed  they  had  been  biting,  and,  after 
all,  this  was  just  about  the  beginning  of  the 
right  place. 

Hand  over  hand;  now  the  splashing  will 
begin,  thought  little  Baptiste,  and  out  came  the 
fourth  hook  with  its  livid  worm!  He  held  the 
rope  in  his  hand  without  drawing  it  in  for  a  few 
moments,  but  could  see  no  reasonable  objection 
to  that  last  worm.  His  heart  sank  a  little,  but 
pshaw!  only  four  hooks  out  of  forty  were  up 
yet!  wait  till  the  eddy  behind  the  shoal  was 
reached,  then  great  things  would  be  '  seen. 
Maybe  the  fish  had  not  been  lying  in  that  first 
bit  of  current. 


172  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

Hand  over  hand  again,  now!  yes,  certainly, 
there  is  the  right  swirl!  What?  a  losch,  that 
unclean  semi-lizard!  The  boy  tore  it  off  and 
flung  it  indignantly  into  the  river.  However, 
there  was  good  luck  in  a  losch;  that  was  well 
known. 

But  the  next  hook,  and  the  next,  and  next, 
and  next  came  up  baited  and  fishless.  He 
pulled  hand  over  hand  quickly — not  a  fish !  and 
he  must  have  gone  over  half  the  line!  Little 
Baptiste  stopped,  with  his  heart  like  lead  and 
his  arms  trembling.  It  was  terrible!  Not  a 
fish,  and  his  father  had  no  supper,  and  there 
was  no  credit  at  the  store.  Poor  little  Baptiste ! 

Again  he  hauled  hand  over  hand — one  hook, 
two,  three — oh!  ho!  Glorious!  What  a  de- 
lightful sheer  downward  the  rope  took !  Surely 
the  big  sturgeon  at  last,  trying  to  stay  down 
on  the  bottom  with  the  hook!  But  Baptiste 
would  show  that  fish  his  mistake.  He  pulled, 
pulled,  stood  up  to  pull;  there  was  a  sort  of 
shake,  a  sudden  give  of  the  rope,  and  little 
Baptiste  tumbled  over  backward  as  he  jerked 
his  line  up  from  under  the  big  stone ! 

Then  he  heard  the  shutters  clattering  as 
Conolly's  clerk  took  them  off  the  store  win- 
dow; at  half -past  five  to  the  minute  that  was 


LITTLE    BAPTISTE  173 

always  done.  Soon  big  Baptiste  would  be  up, 
that  was  certain.  Again  the  boy  began  hauling 
in  line:  baited  hook!  baited  hook!  naked  hook! 
baited  hook! — such  was  still  the  tale. 

"Surely,  surely,"  implored  little  Baptiste, 
silently,  "I  shall  find  some  fish!"  Up!  up! 
only  four  remained!  The  boy  broke  down. 
Could  it  be?  Had  he  not  somehow  skipped 
many  hooks  ?  Could  it  be  that  there  was  to  be 
no  breakfast  for  the  children?  Naked  hook 
again!  Oh,  for  some  fish!  anything!  three, 
two! 

"Oh,  send  just  one  for  my  father! — my  poor, 
hungry  father!"  cried  little  Baptiste,  and  drew 
up  his  last  hook.  It  came  full  baited,  and  the 
line  was  out  of  the  water  clear  away  to  his  outer 
buoy! 

He  let  go  the  rope  and  drifted  down  the 
river,  crying  as  though  his  heart  would  break. 
All  the  good  hooks  useless !  all  the  labor  thrown 
away !  all  his  self-confidence  come  to  naught ! 

Up  rose  the  great  sun;  from  around  the 
kneeling  boy  drifted  the  last  of  the  morning 
mists;  bright  beams  touched  his  bowed  head 
tenderly.  He  lifted  his  face  and  looked  up  the 
rapid.  Then  he  jumped  to  his  feet  with  sudden 
wonder;  a  great  joy  lit  up  his  countenance. 


174  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STOEIES 

Far  up  the  river  a  low,  broad,  white  patch 
appeared  on  the  sharp  sky-line  made  by  the 
level  dark  summit  of  the  long  slope  of  tumbling 
water.  On  this  white  patch  stood  many  figures 
of  swaying  men  black  against  the  clear  morn- 
ing sky,  and  little  Baptiste  saw  instantly  that 
an  attempt  was  being  made  to  "run"  a  "band" 
of  deals,  or  many  cribs  lashed  together,  instead 
of  single  cribs  as  had  been  done  the  day  before. 

The  broad  strip  of  white  changed  its  form 
slowly,  dipped  over  the  slope,  drew  out  like  a 
wide  ribbon,  and  soon  showed  a  distinct  slant 
across  the  mighty  volume  of  the  deep  raft  chan- 
nel. When  little  Baptiste,  acquainted  as  he 
was  with  every  current,  eddy,  and  shoal  in  the 
rapid,  saw  that  slant,  he  knew  that  his  first 
impression  of  what  was  about  to  happen  had 
been  correct.  The  pilot  of  the  band  had 
allowed  it  to  drift  too  far  north  before  reaching 
the  rapid's  head. 

Now  the  front  cribs,  instead  of  following  the 
curve  of  the  channel,  had  taken  slower  water, 
while  the  rear  cribs,  impelled  by  the  rush  under 
them,  swung  the  band  slowly  across  the  cur- 
rent. All  along  the  front  the  standing  men 
swayed  back  and  forth,  plying  sweeps  full 
forty  feet  long,  attempting  to  swing  into  chan- 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  175 

nel  again,  with  their  strokes  dashing  the  dark 
rollers  before  the  band  into  wide  splashes  of 
white.  On  the  rear  cribs  another  crew  pulled 
in  the  contrary  direction;  about  the  middle  of 
the  band  stood  the  pilot,  urging  his  gangs  with 
gestures  to  greater  efforts. 

Suddenly  he  made  a  new  motion;  the  gang 
behind  drew  in  their  oars  and  ran  hastily  for- 
ward to  double  the  force  in  front.  But  they 
came  too  late!  Hardly  had  the  doubled  bow 
crew  taken  a  stroke  when  all  drew  in  their  oars 
and  ran  back  to  be  out  of  danger.  Next  mo- 
ment the  front  cribs  struck  the  "hog's-back" 
shoal. 

Then  the  long  broad  band  curved  downward 
in  the  centre,  the  rear  cribs  swung  into  the  shal- 
lows on  the  opposite  side  of  the  raft-channel, 
there  was  a  great  straining  and  crashing,  the 
men  in  front  huddled  together,  watching  the 
wreck  anxiously,  and  the  band  went  speedily  to 
pieces.  Soon  a  fringe  of  single  planks  came 
down  stream,  then  cribs  and  pieces  of  cribs; 
half  the  band  was  drifting  with  the  currents, 
and  half  was  "hung  up"  on  the  rocks  among 
the  breakers. 

launching  the  big  red  flat-bottomed  bow 
boat,  twenty  of  the  raftsmen  came  with  wild 


176  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

speed  down  the  river,  and  as  there  had  been  no 
rush  to  get  aboard,  little  Baptiste  knew  that  the 
cribs  on  which  the  men  stood  were  so  hard 
aground  that  no  lives  were  in  danger.  It  meant 
much  to  him ;  it  meant  that  he  was  instantly  at 
liberty  to  gather  in  money!  money,  in  sums 
that  loomed  to  gigantic  figures  before  his  imag- 
ination. 

He  knew  that  there  was  an  important  reason 
for  hurrying  the  deals  to  Quebec,  else  the  great 
risk  of  running  a  band  at  that  season  would  not 
have  been  undertaken;  and  he  knew  that  hard 
cash  would  be  paid  down  as  salvage  for  all 
planks  brought  ashore,  and  thus  secured  from 
drifting  far  and  wide  over  the  lake-like  expanse 
below  the  rapid's  foot.  Little  Baptiste  plunged 
his  oars  in  and  made  for  a  clump  of  deals  float- 
ing in  the  eddy  near  his  own  shore.  As  he 
rushed  along,  the  raftsmen's  boat  crossed  his 
bows,  going  to  the  main  raft  below  for  ropes 
and  material  to  secure  the  cribs  coming  down 
intact. 

"Good  boy!"  shouted  the  foreman  to  Bap- 
tiste. "Ten  cents  for  every  deal  you  fetch 
ashore  above  the  raft !" 

Ten  cents !  he  had  expected  but  five !  What 
a  harvest ! 


LITTLE    BAPTISTE  177 

Striking  his  pike-pole  into  the  clump  of 
deals, — "fifty  at  least,"  said  joyful  Baptiste, — 
he  soon  secured  them  to  his  boat,  and  then 
pulled,  pulled,  pulled,  till  the  blood  rushed  to 
his  head,  and  his  arms  ached,  before  he  landed 
his  wealth. 

"Father!"  cried  he,  bursting  breathlessly  into 
the  sleeping  household.  "Come  quick!  I  can't 
get  it  up  without  you." 

"Big  sturgeon?"  cried  the  shantyman,  jump- 
ing into  his  trousers. 

"Oh,  but  we  shall  have  a  good  fish  break- 
fast!" cried  Delima. 

"Did  I  not  say  the  blessed  le  bon  Dieu  would 
send  plenty  fish?"  observed  Memere. 

"Not  a  fish!"  cried  little  Baptiste,  with  re- 
covered breath.  "But  look!  look!"  and  he 
flung  open  the  door.  The  eddy  was  now  white 
with  planks. 

"Ten  cents  for  each!"  cried  the  boy.  "The 
foreman  told  me." 

"Ten  cents!"  shouted  his  father.  "Bap- 
teme!  it's  my  winter's  wages!" 

And  the  old  grandmother!  And  Delima? 
Why,  they  just  put  their  arms  round  each 
other  and  cried  for  joy. 

"And  yet  there's  no  breakfast,"  said  Delima, 


178  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

starting  up.    "And  they  will  work  hard,  hard." 

At  that  instant  who  should  reach  the  door 
but  Monsieur  Conolly!  He  was  a  man  who 
respected  cash  wherever  he  found  it,  and  al- 
ready the  two  Baptistes  had  a  fine  show  ashore. 

"Ma'ame  Larocque,"  said  Conolly,  politely, 
putting  in  his  head,  "of  course  you  know  I  was 
only  joking  yesterday.  You  can  get  anything 
you  want  at  the  store." 

What  a  breakfast  they  did  have,  to  be  sure! 
the  Baptistes  eating  while  they  worked.  Back 
and  forward  they  dashed  till  late  afternoon, 
driving  ringed  spikes  into  the  deals,  running 
light  ropes  through  the  rings,  and,  when  a  good 
string  had  thus  been  made,  going  ashore  to  haul 
in.  At  that  hauling  Delima  and  Memere,  even 
little  Andre  and  Odillon  gave  a  hand. 

Everybody  in  the  little  hamlet  made  money 
that  day,  but  the  Larocques  twice  as  much  as 
any  other  family,  because  they  had  an  eddy  and 
a  low  shore.  With  the  help  of  the  people  "the 
big  Bourgeois"  who  owned  the  broken  raft  got 
it  away  that  evening,  and  saved  his  fat  contract 
after  all. 

"Did  I  not  say  so?"  said  "Memere"  at  night, 
for  the  hundredth  time.  "Did  I  not  say  so? 
Yes,  indeed,  le  bon  Dieu  watches  over  us  all." 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE  179 

"Yes,  indeed,  grandmother,"  echoed  little 
Baptiste,  thinking  of  his  failure  on  the  night- 
line.  "We  may  take  as  much  trouble  as  we 
like,  but  it's  no  use  unless  le  bon  Dieu  helps  us. 
Only — I  don't  know  what  de  big  Bourgeois 
say  about  that — his  raft  was  all  broke  up  so 
bad." 

"Ah,  ow"  said  Memere,  looking  puzzled  for 
but  a  moment.  "But  he  didn't  put  his  trust  in 
le  bon  Dieu;  that's  it,  for  sure.  Besides,  maybe 
le  bon  Dieu  want  to  teach  him  a  lesson;  he'll 
not  try  for  run  a  whole  band  of  deals  next  time. 
You  see  that  was  a  tempting  of  Providence; 
and  then — the  big  Bourgeois  is  a  Protestant." 


RED-HEADED  WINDEGO 

BIG  Baptiste  Seguin,  on  snow-shoes  nearly 
six  feet  long,  strode  mightily  out  of  the  forest, 
and  gazed  across  the  treeless  valley  ahead. 

"Hooraw!  No  choppin'  for  two  mile!"  he 
shouted. 

"Hooraw!  Bully!  Hi-yi!"  yelled  the  axe- 
men, Pierre,  "Jawnny,"  and  "Frawce,"  two 
hundred  yards  behind.  Their  cries  were  taken 
up  by  the  two  chain-bearers  still  farther  back. 

"Is  it  a  lake,  Baptiste?"  cried  Tom  Duns- 
combe,  the  young  surveyor,  as  he  hurried  for- 
ward through  balsams  that  edged  the  woods 
and  concealed  the  open  space  from  those  among 
the  trees. 

"No,  seh ;  only  a  beaver  meddy." 

"Clean?" 

"Clean !  Yesseh !  Clean's  your  face.  Hain't 
no  tree  for  two  mile  if  de  line  is  go  right." 

"Good!  We  shall  make  seven  miles  to-day," 
said  Tom,  as  he  came  forward  with  immense 
strides,  carrying  a  compass  and  Jacob's-staff. 
Behind  him  the  axemen  slashed  along,  striking 
white  slivers  from  the  pink  and  scaly  columns 

180 


RED-HEADED    WINDEGO  181 

of  red  pines  that  shot  up  a  hundred  and  twenty 
feet  without  a  branch.  If  any  underbrush  grew 
there,  it  was  beneath  the  eight-feet-deep  Feb- 
ruary snow,  so  that  one  could  see  far  away 
down  a  multitude  of  vaulted,  converging  aisles. 

Our  young  surveyor  took  no  thought  of  the 
beauty  and  majesty  of  the  forest  he  was  leav- 
ing. His  thoughts  and  those  of  his  men  were 
set  solely  on  getting  ahead;  for  all  hands  had 
been  promised  double  pay  for  their  whole  win- 
ter, in  case  they  succeeded  in  running  a  line 
round  the  disputed  Moose  Lake  timber  berth 
before  the  tenth  of  April. 

Their  success  would  secure  the  claim  of  their 
employer,  Old  Dan  McEachran,  whereas  their 
failure  would  submit  him  perhaps  to  the  loss  of 
the  limit,  and  certainly  to  a  costly  lawsuit  with 
Old  Rory  Carmichael,  another  potentate  of 
the  Upper  Ottawa. 

At  least  six  weeks  more  of  fair  snow-shoeing 
would  be  needed  to  "blaze"  out  the  limit,  even 
if  the  unknown  country  before  them  should 
turn  out  to  be  less  broken  by  cedar  swamps  and 
high  precipices  than  they  feared.  A  few  days' 
thaw  with  rain  would  make  slush  of  the  eight 
feet  of  snow,  and  compel  the  party  either  to 
keep  in  camp,  or  risk  mal  de  raquette, — strain 


182  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

of  legs  by  heavy  snow-shoeing.  So  they  were 
in  great  haste  to  make  the  best  of  fine  weather. 

Tom  thrust  his  Jacob's-staff  into  the  snow, 
set  the  compass  sights  to  the  right  bearing, 
looked  through  them,  and  stood  by  to  let  Big 
Baptiste  get  a  course  along  the  line  ahead. 
Baptiste's  duty  was  to  walk  straight  for  some 
selected  object  far  away  on  the  line.  In  wood- 
land the  axeman  "blazed"  trees  on  both  sides  of 
his  snow-shoe  track. 

Baptiste  was  as  expert  at  his  job  as  any 
Indian,  and  indeed  he  looked  as  if  he  had  a 
streak  of  Iroquois  in  his  veins.  So  did 
"Frawce,"  "Jawnny,"  and  all  their  comrades 
of  the  party. 

"The  three  pines  will  do,"  said  Tom,  as  Bap- 
tiste crouched. 

"Good  luck  to-day  for  sure!"  cried  Baptiste, 
rising  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  three  pines  in  the 
foreground  of  the  distant  timbered  ridge.  He 
saw  that  the  line  did  indeed  run  clear  of  trees 
for  two  miles  along  one  side  of  the  long,  narrow 
beaver  meadow  or  swale. 

Baptiste  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  grinned 
agreeably  at  Tom  Dunscombe. 

"De  boys  will  look  like  dey's  all  got  de  dou- 
ble pay  in  deys'  pocket  when  dey's  see  dis 


RED-HEADED   WINDEGO  183 

open,"  said  Baptiste,  and  started  for  the  three 
pines  as  straight  as  a  bee. 

Tom  waited  to  get  from  the  chainmen  the 
distance  to  the  edge  of  the  wood.  They  came 
on  the  heels  of  the  axemen,  and  all  capered  on 
their  snow-shoes  to  see  so  long  a  space  free 
from  cutting. 

It  was  now  two  o'clock;  they  had  marched 
with  forty  pound  or  "light"  packs  since  day- 
light, lunching  on  cold  pork  and  hard-tack  as 
they  worked;  they  had  slept  cold  for  weeks  on 
brush  under  an  open  tent  pitched  over  a  hole 
in  the  snow;  they  must  live  this  life  of  hard- 
ship and  huge  work  for  six  weeks  longer,  but 
they  hoped  to  get  twice  their  usual  eighty- 
cents-a-day  pay,  and  so  their  hearts  were  light 
and  jolly. 

But  Big  Baptiste,  now  two  hundred  yards 
in  advance,  swinging  along  in  full  view  of  the 
party,  stopped  with  a  scared  cry.  They  saw 
him  look  to  the  left  and  to  the  right,  and  over 
his  shoulder  behind,  like  a  man  who  expects 
mortal  attack  from  a  near  but  unknown  quar- 
ter. 

"What's  the  matter?"  shouted  Tom. 

Baptiste  went  forward  a  few  steps,  hesitated, 
stopped,  turned,  and  fairly  ran  back  toward 


184  OLD    MAN    SAVAKIN    STORIES 

the  party.  As  he  came  he  continually  turned 
his  head  from  side  to  side  as  if  expecting  to 
see  some  dreadful  thing  following. 

The  men  behind  Tom  stopped.  Their  faces 
were  blanched.  They  looked,  too,  from  side  to 
side. 

"Halt,  Mr.  Tom,  halt !  Oh,  monjee,  M'sieu, 
stop!"  said  Jawnny. 

Tom  looked  round  at  his  men,  amazed  at 
their  faces  of  mysterious  terror. 

"What  on  earth  has  happened?"  cried  he. 

Instead  of  answering,  the  men  simply 
pointed  to  Big  Baptiste,  who  was  soon  within 
twenty  yards. 

"What  is  the  trouble,  Baptiste?"  asked  Tom. 

Baptiste's  face  was  the  hue  of  death.  As  he 
spoke  he  shuddered: — 

"Monjee,  Mr.  Tom,  we'll  got  for  stop  de 
job!" 

"Stop  the  job!    Are  you  crazy?" 

"If  you'll  not  b'lieve  what  I  told,  den  you 
go'n'  see  for  you'se'f ." 

"What  is  it?" 

"De  track,  seh." 

"What  track?    Wolves?" 

"If  it  was  only  wolfs !" 

"Confound  you!  can't  you  say  what  it  is?" 


RED-HEADED    WINDEGO  185 

"Eet's  de — it  ain't  safe  for  told  its  name  out 
loud,  for  dass  de  way  it  come — if  it's  call  by  its 
name!" 

"Windego,  eh?"  said  Tom,  laughing. 

"I'll  know  its  track  jus'  as  quick's  I  see  it." 

"Do  you  mean  you  have  seen  a  Windego 
track?" 

"Monjee,  seh,  don't  say  its  name !  Let  us  go 
back,"  said  Jawnny.  "Baptiste  was  at  Ma- 
dores'  shanty  with  us  when  it  took  Hermidas 
Dubois." 

"Yesseh.  That's  de  way  I'll  come  for  know 
de  track  soon's  I  see  it,"  said  Baptiste.  "Before 
den  I  mos'  don'  b'lieve  dere  was  any  of  it.  But 
ain't  it  take  Hermidas  Dubois  only  last  New 
Year's?" 

"That  was  all  nonsense  about  Dubois.  I'll 
bet  it  was  a  joke  to  scare  you  all." 

"Who's  kill  a  man  for  a  joke?"  said  Bap- 
tiste. 

"Did  you  see  Hermidas  Dubois  killed?  Did 
you  see  him  dead?  No!  I  heard  all  about  it. 
All  you  know  is  that  he  went  away  on  New 
Year's  morning,  when  the  rest  of  the  men  were 
too  scared  to  leave  the  shanty,  because  some 
one  said  there  was  a  Windego  track  outside." 

"Hermidas  never  come  back!" 


186  OLD    MAN    SAVABJN    STORIES 

"I'll  bet  he  went  away  home.  You'll  find 
him  at  Saint  Agathe  in  the  spring.  You  can't 
be  such  fools  as  to  believe  in  Windegos." 

"Don't  you  say  dat  name  some  more!"  yelled 
Big  Baptiste,  now  fierce  with  fright.  "Hain't 
I  just  seen  de  track?  I'm  go'n'  back,  me,  if 
I  don't  get  a  copper  of  pay  for  de  whole  win- 
ter!" 

"Wait  a  little  now,  Baptiste,"  said  Tom, 
alarmed  lest  his  party  should  desert  him  and 
the  job.  "I'll  soon  find  out  what's  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  track." 

"Dere  is  blood  at  de  bottom — I  seen  it!"  said 
Baptiste. 

"Well,  you  wait  till  I  go  and  see  it." 

"No!  I  go  back,  me,"  said  Baptiste,  and 
started  up  the  slope  with  the  others  at  his  heels. 

"Halt!  Stop  there!  Halt,  you  fools!  Don't 
you  understand  that  if  there  was  any  such  mon- 
ster it  would  as  easily  catch  you  in  one  place  as 
another?" 

The  men  went  on.    Tom  took  another  tone. 

"Boys,  look  here!  I  say,  are  you  going  to 
desert  me  like  cowards?" 

"Hain't  goin'  for  desert  you,  Mr.  Tom,  no 
seh!"  said  Baptiste,  halting.  "Honly  I'll  hain' 
go  for  cross  de  track."  They  all  faced  round. 


RED-HEADED    WINDEGO  187 

Torn  was  acquainted  with  a  considerable 
number  of  Windego  superstitions. 

"There's  no  danger  unless  it's  a  fresh  track," 
he  said.  "Perhaps  it's  an  old  one." 

"Fresh  made  dis  mornin',"  said  Baptiste. 

"Well,  wait  till  I  go  and  see  it.  You're  all 
right,  you  know,  if  you  don't  cross  it.  Isn't 
that  the  idea?" 

"No,  seh.  Mr.  Humphreys  told  Madore 
'bout  dat.  Eef  somebody  cross  de  track  and 
don't  never  come  back,  den  de  magic  ain't  in 
de  track  no  more.  But  it's  watchin',  watchin' 
all  round  to  catch  somebody  what  cross  its 
track;  and  if  nobody  don't  cross  its  track  and 
get  catched,  den  de — de  Ting  mebby  get  crazy 
mad,  and  nobody  don'  know  what  it's  goin'  for 
do.  Kill  every  person,  mebby." 

Tom  mused  over  this  information.  These 
men  had  all  been  in  Madore's  shanty;  Madore 
was  under  Red  Dick  Humphreys;  Red  Dick 
was  Rory  Carmichael's  head  foreman;  he  had 
sworn  to  stop  the  survey  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
and  this  vow  had  been  made  after  Tom  had 
hired  his  gang  from  among  those  scared  away 
from  Madore's  shanty.  Tom  thought  he  began 
to  understand  the  situation. 

"Just  wait  a  bit,  boys,"  he  said,  and  started. 


188  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"You  ain't- surely  go'n'  for  cross  de  track?" 
cried  Baptiste. 

"Not  now,  anyway,"  said  Tom.  "But  wait 
till  I  see  it." 

When  he  reached  the  mysterious  track  it 
surprised  him  so  greatly  that  he  easily  forgave 
Baptiste's  fears. 

If  a  giant  having  ill-shaped  feet  as  long  as 
Tom's  snow-shoes  had  passed  by  in  moccasins, 
the  main  features  of  the  indentations  might 
have  been  produced.  But  the  marks  were  no 
deeper  in  the  snow  than  if  the  huge  moccasins 
had  been  worn  by  an  ordinary  man.  They  were 
about  five  and  a  half  feet  apart  from  centres,  a 
stride  that  no  human  legs  could  take  at  a  walk- 
ing pace. 

Moreover,  there  were  on  the  snow  none  of 
the  dragging  marks  of  striding;  the  gigantic 
feet  had  apparently  been  lifted  straight  up 
clear  of  the  snow,  and  put  straight  down. 

Strangest  of  all,  at  the  front  of  each  print 
were  five  narrow  holes  which  suggested  that 
the  mysterious  creature  had  travelled  with  bare, 
claw-like  toes.  An  irregular  drip  or  squirt  of 
blood  went  along  the  middle  of  the  indenta- 
tions !  Nevertheless,  the  whole  thing  seemed  of 
human  devising. 


RED-HEADED    WINDEGO  189 

This  track,  Tom  reflected,  was  consistent 
with  the  Indian  superstition  that  Windegos  are 
monsters  who  take  on  or  relinquish  the  human 
form,  and  vary  their  size  at  pleasure.  He  per- 
ceived that  he  must  bring  the  maker  of  those 
tracks  promptly  to  book,  or  suffer  his  men  to 
desert  the  survey,  and  cost  him  his  whole  win- 
ter's work,  besides  making  him  a  laughing- 
stock in  the  settlements. 

The  young  fellow  made  his  decision  in- 
stantly. After  feeling  for  his  match-box  and 
sheath-knife,  he  took  his  hatchet  from  his  sash, 
and  called  to  the  men. 

"Go  into  camp  and  wait  for  me!" 

Then  he  set  off  alongside  of  the  mysterious 
track  at  his  best  pace.  It  came  out  of  a  tangle 
of  alders  to  the  west,  and  went  into  such  an- 
other tangle  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the 
east.  Tom  went  east.  The  men  watched  him 
with  horror. 

"He's  got  crazy,  looking  at  de  track,"  said 
Big  Baptiste,  "for  that's  the  way, — one  is  en- 
chanted,— he  must  follow." 

"He  was  a  good  boss,"  said  Jawnny,  sadly. 

As  the  young  fellow  disappeared  in  the 
alders  the  men  looked  at  one  another  with  a 
certain  shame.  Not  a  sound  except  the  sough 


190  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

of  pines  from  the  neighboring  forest  was  heard. 
Though  the  sun  was  sinking  in  clear  blue,  the 
aspect  of  the  wilderness,  gray  and  white  and 
severe,  touched  the  impressionable  men  with 
deeper  melancholy.  They  felt  lonely,  master- 
less,  mean. 

"He  was  a  good  boss,"  said  Jawnny  again. 

"Tort  Dieu!"  cried  Baptiste,  leaping  to  his 
feet.  "It's  a  shame  for  desert  the  young  boss. 
I  don't  care;  the  Windego  can  only  kill  me. 
I'm  going  for  help  Mr.  Tom." 

"Me  also,"  said  Jawnny. 

Then  all  wished  to  go.  But  after  some  par- 
ley it  was  agreed  that  the  others  should  wait 
for  the  portageurs,  who  were  likely  to  be  two 
miles  behind,  and  make  camp  for  the  night. 

Soon  Baptiste  and  Jawnny,  each  with  his 
axe,  started  diagonally  across  the  swale,  and 
entered  the  alders  on  Tom's  track. 

It  took  them  twenty  yards  through  the  al- 
ders, to  the  edge  of  a  warm  spring  or  marsh 
about  fifty  yards  wide.  This  open,  shallow 
water  was  completely  encircled  by  alders  that 
came  down  to  its  very  edge.  Tom's  snow-shoe 
track  joined  the  track  of  the  mysterious  mon- 
ster for  the  first  time  on  the  edge — and  there 
both  vanished ! 


BAPTI8TE  AND  JAWNNY  LOOKED  AT  THE  PLACE 
IN  THE  WILDEST  TERROR 


RED-HEADED    WINDEGO  191 

Baptiste  and  Jawnny  looked  at  the  place 
with  the  wildest  terror,  and  without  even  think- 
ing to  search  the  deeply  indented  opposite 
edges  of  the  little  pool  for  a  reappearance  of  the 
tracks,  fled  back  to  the  party.  It  was  just  as 
Red  Dick  Humphreys  had  said;  just  as  they 
had  always  heard.  Tom,  like  Hermidas  Du- 
bois,  appeared  to  have  vanished  from  existence 
the  moment  he  stepped  on  the  Windego  track! 

The  dimness  of  early  evening  was  in  the  red- 
pine  forest  through  which  Tom's  party  had 
passed  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  belated 
portageurs  were  tramping  along  the  line.  A 
man  with  a  red  head  had  been  long  crouching 
in  some  cedar  bushes  to  the  east  of  the  "blazed" 
cutting.  When  he  had  watched  the  portageurs 
pass  out  of  sight,  he  stepped  over  upon  their 
track,  and  followed  it  a  short  distance. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  young  fellow,  over  six 
feet  high,  who  strongly  resembled  Tom  Duns- 
combe,  followed  the  red-headed  man. 

The  stranger,  suddenly  catching  sight  of  a 
flame  far  away  ahead  on  the  edge  of  the  beaver 
meadow,  stopped  and  fairly  hugged  himself. 

"Camped,  by  jiminy!  I  knowed  I'd  fetch 
'em,"  was  the  only  remark  he  made. 


192  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

"I  wish  Big  Baptiste  could  see  that  Windego 
laugh,"  thought  Tom  Dunscombe,  concealed 
behind  a  tree. 

After  reflecting  a  few  moments,  the  red- 
headed man,  a  wiry  little  fellow,  went  forward 
till  he  came  to  where  an  old  pine  had  recently 
fallen  across  the  track.  There  he  kicked  off 
his  snow-shoes,  picked  them  up,  ran  along  the 
trunk,  jumped  into  the  snow  from  among  the 
branches,  put  on  his  snow-shoes,  and  started 
northwestward.  His  new  track  could  not  be 
seen  from  the  survey  line. 

But  Tom  had  beheld  and  understood  the 
purpose  of  the  manoeuvre.  He  made  straight 
for  the  head  of  the  fallen  tree,  got  on  the 
stranger's  tracks  and  cautiously  followed  them, 
keeping  far  enough  behind  to  be  out  of  hearing 
or  sight. 

The  red-headed  stranger  went  toward  the 
wood  out  of  which  the  mysterious  track  of  the 
morning  had  come.  When  he  had  reached  the 
little  brush-camp  in  which  he  had  slept  the  pre- 
vious night,  he  made  a  small  fire,  put  a  small 
tin  pot  on  it,  boiled  some  tea,  broiled  a  venison 
steak,  ate  his  supper,  had  several  good  laughs, 
took  a  long  smoke,  rolled  himself  round  and 
round  in  his  blanket,  and  went  to  sleep. 


BED-HEADED    WINDEGO  193 

Hours  passed  before  Tom  ventured  to  crawl 
forward  and  peer  into  the  brush  camp.  The 
red-headed  man  was  lying  on  his  face,  as  is 
the  custom  of  many  woodsmen.  His  capuchin 
cap  covered  his  red  head. 

Tom  Dunscombe  took  off  his  own  long  sash. 
When  the  red-headed  man  woke  up  he  found 
that  some  one  was  on  his  back,  holding  his  head 
firmly  down. 

Unable  to  extricate  his  arms  or  legs  from  his 
blankets,  the  red-headed  man  began  to  utter 
fearful  threats.  Tom  said  not  one  word,  but 
diligently  wound  his  sash  round  his  prisoner's 
head,  shoulders,  and  arms. 

He  then  rose,  took  the  red-headed  man's  own 
"tump-line,"  a  leather  strap  about  twelve  feet 
long,  which  tapered  from  the  middle  to  both 
ends,  tied  this  firmly  round  the  angry  live 
mummy,  and  left  him  lying  on  his  face. 

Then,  collecting  his  prisoner's  axe,  snow- 
shoes,  provisions,  and  tin  pail,  Tom  started 
with  them  back  along  the  Windego  track  for 
camp. 

Big  Baptiste  and  his  comrades  had  supped 
too  full  of  fears  to  go  to  sleep.  They  had  built 
an  enormous  fire,  because  Windegos  are  re- 
ported, in  Indian  circles,  to  share  with  wild 


194  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

beasts  the  dread  of  flames  and  brands.  Tom 
stole  quietly  to  within  fifty  yards  of  the  camp, 
and  suddenly  shouted  in  unearthly  fashion. 
The  men  sprang  up,  quaking. 

"It's  the  Windego!"  screamed  Jawnny. 

"You  silly  fools!"  said  Tom,  coming  for- 
ward. "Don't  you  know  my  voice?  Am  I  a 
Windego?" 

"It's  the  Windego,  for  sure;  it's  took  the 
shape  of  Mr.  Tom,  after  eatin'  him,"  cried  Big 
Baptiste. 

Tom  laughed  so  uproariously  at  this  that  the 
other  men  scouted  the  idea,  though  it  was  quite 
in  keeping  with  their  information  concerning 
Windegos'  habits. 

Then  Tom  came  in  and  gave  a  full  and  par- 
ticular account  of  the  Windego's  pursuit,  cap- 
ture, and  present  predicament. 

"But  how'd  he  make  de  track?"  they 
asked. 

"He  had  two  big  old  snow-shoes,  stuffed  with 
spruce  tips  underneath,  and  covered  with 
dressed  deerskin.  He  had  cut  off  the  back 
ends  of  them.  You  shall  see  them  to-morrow. 
I  found  them  down  yonder  where  he  had  left 
them  after  crossing  the  warm  spring.  He  had 
five  bits  of  sharp  round  wood  going  down  in 


RED-HEADED    WINDEGO  195 

front  of  them.  He  must  have  stood  on  them 
one  after  the  other,  and  lifted  the  back  one 
every  time  with  the  pole  he  carried.  I've  got 
that,  too.  The  blood  was  from  a  deer  he  had 
run  down  and  killed  in  the  snow.  He  carried 
the  blood  in  his  tin  pail,  and  sprinkled  it  be- 
hind him.  He  must  have  run  out  our  line  long 
ago  with  a  compass,  so  he  knew  where  it  would 
go.  But  come,  let  us  go  and  see  if  it's  Red 
Dick  Humphreys." 

Red  Dick  proved  to  be  the  prisoner.  He 
had  become  quite  philosophic  while  waiting  for 
his  captor  to  come  back.  When  unbound  he 
grinned  pleasantly,  and  remarked: 

"You're  Mr.  Dunscombe,  eh?  Well,  you're 
a  smart  young  feller,  Mr.  Dunscombe.  There 
ain't  another  man  on  the  Ottaway  that  could 
'a'  done  that  trick  on  me.  Old  Dan  McEach- 
ran  will  make  your  fortun'  for  this,  and  I  don't 
begrudge  it.  You're  a  man — that's  so.  If 
ever  I  hear  any  feller  saying  to  the  contrayry 
he's  got  to  lick  Red  Dick  Humphreys." 

And  he  told  them  the  particulars  of  his  prac- 
tical joke  in  making  a  Windego  track  round 
Madore's  shanty. 

"Hermidas  Dubois? — oh,  he's  all  right,"  said 
Red  Dick.  "He's  at  home  at  St.  Agathe. 


196  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Man,  he  helped  me  to  fix  up  that  Windego 
track  at  Madore's;  but,  by  criminy!  the  look  of 
it  scared  him  so  he  wouldn't  cross  it  himself. 
It  was  a  holy  terror!" 


THE  RIDE  BY  NIGHT 

MR.  ADAM  BAINES  is  a  little  gray  about  the 
temples,  but  still  looks  so  young  that  few  could 
suppose  him  to  have  been  one  of  the  fifty-three 
thousand  Canadians  who  served  Abraham  Lin- 
coln's cause  in  the  Civil  War.  Indeed,  he  was 
in  the  army  less  than  a  year.  How  he  went  out 
of  it  he  told  me  in  some  such  words  as  these : — 

An  orderly  from  the  direction  of  Meade's 
headquarters  galloped  into  our  parade  ground, 
and  straight  for  the  man  on  guard  before  the 
colonel's  tent.  That  was  pretty  late  in  the  af- 
ternoon of  a  bright  March  day  in  1865,  but  the 
parade  ground  was  all  red  mud  with  shallow 
pools.  I  remember  well  how  the  hind  hoofs  of 
the  orderly's  galloper  threw  away  great  chunks 
of  earth  as  he  splashed  diagonally  across  the 
open. 

His  rider  never  slowed  till  he  brought  his 
horse  to  its  haunches  before  the  sentry.  There 
he  flung  himself  off  instantly,  caught  up  his 
sabre,  and  ran  through  the  middle  opening  of 
the  high  screen  of  sapling  pines  stuck  on  end, 
side  by  side,  all  around  the  acre  or  so  occupied 
by  the  officers'  quarters. 

197 


198  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

The  day,  though  sunny,  was  not  warm,  and 
nearly  all  the  men  of  my  regiment  were  in  their 
huts  when  that  galloping  was  heard.  Then 
they  hurried  out  like  bees  from  rows  of  hives, 
ran  up  the  lanes  between  the  lines  of  huts,  and 
collected,  each  company  separately,  on  the  edge 
of  the  parade  ground  opposite  the  officers' 
quarters. 

You  see  we  had  a  notion  that  the  orderly  had 
brought  the  word  to  break  camp.  For  five 
months  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  had  been  in 
winter  quarters,  and  for  weeks  nothing  more 
exciting  than  vidette  duty  had  broken  the  mo- 
notony of  our  brigade.  We  understood  that 
Sheridan  had  received  command  of  all  Grant's 
cavalry,  but  did  not  know  but  the  orderly  had 
rushed  from  Sheridan  himself.  Yet  we  awaited 
the  man's  re-appearance  with  intense  curiosity. 

Soon,  instead  of  the  orderly,  out  ran  our 
first  lieutenant,  a  small,  wiry,  long-haired  man 
named  Miller.  He  was  in  undress  uniform,— 
just  a  blouse  and  trousers, — and  bare-headed. 
Though  he  wore  low  shoes,  he  dashed  through 
mud  and  water  toward  us,  plainly  in  a  great 
hurry. 

"Sergeant  Kennedy,  I  want  ten  men  at  once 
— mounted,"  Miller  said.  "Choose  the  ten  best 


199 


able  for  a  long  ride,  and  give  them  the  best 
horses  in  the  company.  You  understand, — no 
matter  whose  the  ten  best  horses  are,  give  'em 
to  the  ten  best  riders." 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  Kennedy. 

By  this  time  half  the  company  had  started 
for  the  stables,  for  fully  half  considered  them- 
selves among  the  best  riders.  The  lieutenant 
laughed  at  their  eagerness. 

"Halt,  boys!"  he  cried.  "Sergeant,  I'll  pick 
out  four  myself.  Come  yourself,  and  bring 
Corporal  Crowfoot,  Private  Bader,  and  Pri- 
vate Absalom  Gray." 

Crowfoot,  Bader,  and  Gray  had  been  run- 
ning for  the  stables  with  the  rest.  Now  these 
three  old  soldiers  grinned  and  walked,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "We  needn't  hurry;  we're  picked 
anyhow;"  while  the  others  hurried  on.  I  re- 
mained near  Kennedy,  for  I  was  so  young  and 
green  a  soldier  that  I  supposed  I  had  no  chance 
to  go. 

"Hurry  up !  parade  as  soon  as  possible.  One 
day's  rations;  light  marching  order — no  blan- 
kets— fetch  over-coats  and  ponchos,"  said 
Miller,  turning;  "and  in  choosing  your  men, 
favor  light  weights." 

That    was,    no    doubt,    the    remark   which 


200  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

brought  me  in.  I  was  lanky,  light,  bred  among 
horses,  and  one  of  the  best  in  the  regiment  had 
fallen  to  my  lot.  Kennedy  wheeled,  and  his 
eye  fell  on  me. 

"Saddle  up,  Adam,  boy,"  said  he;  "I  guess 
you'll  do." 

Lieutenant  Miller  ran  back  to  his  quarters, 
his  long  hair  flying  wide.  When  he  reappeared 
fifteen  minutes  later,  we  were  trotting  across 
the  parade  ground  to  meet  him.  He  was 
mounted,  not  on  his  own  charger,  but  on  the 
colonel's  famous  thorough-bred  bay.  Then  we 
knew  a  hard  ride  must  be  in  prospect. 

"What!  one  of  the  boys?"  cried  Miller,  as 
he  saw  me.  "He's  too  young." 

"He's  very  light,  sir;  tough  as  hickory.  I 
guess  he'll  do,"  said  Kennedy. 

"Well,  no  time  to  change  now.  Follow  me ! 
But,  hang  it,  you've  got  your  carbines !  Oh,  I 
forgot!  Keep  pistols  only!  throw  down  your 
sabres  and  carbines — anywhere — never  mind 
the  mud!" 

As  we  still  hesitated  to  throw  down  our 
clean  guns,  he  shouted:  "Down  with  them— 
anywhere!  Now,  boys,  after  me,  by  twos! 
Trot— gallop!" 

Away  we  went,  not  a  man  jack  of  us  knew 


THE   RIDE   BY   NIGHT  201 

for  where  or  what.  The  colonel  and  officers, 
standing  grouped  before  regimental  headquar- 
ters, volleyed  a  cheer  at  us.  It  was  taken  up 
by  the  whole  regiment ;  it  was  taken  up  by  the 
brigade;  it  was  repeated  by  regiment  after 
regiment  of  infantry  as  we  galloped  through 
the  great  camp  toward  the  left  front  of  the 
army.  The  speed  at  which  Miller  led  over  a 
rough  corduroy  road  was  extraordinary,  and 
all  the  men  suspected  some  desperate  enter- 
prise afoot. 

Red  and  brazen  was  the  set  of  the  sun.  I 
remember  it  well,  after  we  got  clear  of  the 
forts,  clear  of  the  breastworks,  clear  of  the  re- 
serves, down  the  long  slope  and  across  the  wide 
ford  of  Grimthorpe's  Creek,  never  drawing 
rein. 

The  lieutenant  led  by  ten  yards  or  so.  He 
had  ordered  each  two  to  take  as  much  distance 
from  the  other  two  in  advance ;  but  we  rode  so 
fast  that  the  water  from  the  heels  of  his  horse 
and  from  the  heels  of  each  two  splashed  into  the 
faces  of  the  following  men. 

From  the  ford  we  loped  up  a  hill,  and  passed 
the  most  advanced  infantry  pickets,  who 
laughed  and  chaffed  us,  asking  us  for  locks  of 
our  hair,  and  if  our  mothers  knew  we  were  out, 


202  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

and  promising  to  report  our  last  words  faith- 
fully to  the  folks  at  home. 

Soon  we  turned  to  the  left  again,  swept  close 
by  several  cavalry  videttes,  and  knew  then  that 
we  were  bound  for  a  ride  through  a  country 
that  might  or  might  not  be  within  Lee's  outer 
lines,  at  that  time  extended  so  thinly  in  many 
places  that  his  pickets  were  far  out  of  touch 
with  one  another.  To  this  day  I  do  not  know 
precisely  where  we  went,  nor  precisely  what 
for.  Soldiers  are  seldom  informed  of  the  mean- 
ing of  their  movements. 

What  I  do  know  is  what  we  did  while  I  was 
in  the  ride.  As  we  were  approaching  dense 
pine  woods  the  lieutenant  turned  in  his  saddle, 
slacked  pace  a  little,  and  shouted,  "Boys,  bunch 
up  near  me !" 

He  screwed  round  in  his  saddle  so  far  that 
we  could  all  see  and  hear,  and  said  :— 

"Boys,  the  order  is  to  follow  this  road  as 
fast  as  we  can  till  our  horses  drop,  or  else  the 
Johnnies  drop  us,  or  else  we  drop  upon  three 
brigades  of  our  own  infantry.  I  guess  they've 
got  astray  somehow;  but  I  don't  know  myself 
what  the  trouble  is.  Our  orders  are  plain.  The 
brigades  are  supposed  to  be  somewhere  on  this 
road.  I  guess  we  shall  do  a  big  thing  if  we 


THE  RIDE   BY  NIGHT  203 

reach  those  men  to-night.  All  we've  got  to  do 
is  to  ride  and  deliver  this  despatch  to  the  gen- 
eral in  command.  You  all  understand?" 

"Yes,  sir!    Yes,  sir!    Yes,  sir!" 

"It's  necessary  you  all  should.  Hark,  now! 
We  are  not  likely  to  strike  the  enemy  in  force, 
but  we  are  likely  to  run  up  against  small  par- 
ties. Now,  Kennedy,  if  they  down  me,  you  are 
to  stop  just  long  enough  to  grab  the  despatch 
from  my  breast;  then  away  you  go, — always 
on  the  main  road.  If  they  down  you  after 
you've  got  the  paper,  the  man  who  can  grab  it 
first  is  to  take  it  and  hurry  forward.  So  on 
right  to  the  last  man.  If  they  down  him,  and 
he's  got  his  senses  when  he  falls,  he's  to  tear 
the  paper  up,  and  scatter  it  as  widely  as  he  can. 
You  all  understand?" 

"Yes,  sir!    Yes,  sir!" 

"All  right,  then.    String  out  again !" 

He  touched  the  big  bay  with  the  spur,  and 
shot  quickly  ahead. 

With  the  long  rest  of  the  winter  our  horses 
were  in  prime  spirits,  though  mostly  a  little  too 
fleshy  for  perfect  condition.  I  had  cared  well 
for  my  horse;  he  was  fast  and  sound  in  wind 
and  limb.  I  was  certainly  the  lightest  rider  of 
the  eleven. 


204  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

I  was  still  thinking  of  the  probability  that  I 
should  get  further  on  the  way  than  any  com- 
rade except  the  lieutenant,  or  perhaps  Crow- 
foot and  Bader,  whose  horses  were  in  great 
shape ;  I  was  thinking  myself  likely  to  win  pro- 
motion before  morning,  when  a  cry  came  out 
of  the  darkness  ahead.  The  words  of  the  chal- 
lenge I  was  not  able  to  catch,  but  I  heard  Mil- 
ler shout,  "Forward,  boys!" 

We  shook  out  more  speed  just  as  a  rifle  spat 
its  long  flash  at  us  from  about  a  hundred  yards 
ahead.  For  one  moment  I  plainly  saw  the 
Southerner's  figure.  Kennedy  reeled  beside 
me,  flung  up  his  hands  with  a  scream,  and  fell. 
His  horse  stopped  at  once.  In  a  moment  the 
lieutenant  had  ridden  the  sentry  down. 

Then  from  the  right  side  of  the  road  a  party, 
who  must  have  been  lying  round  the  camp-fire 
that  we  faintly  saw  in  among  the  pines,  let  fly 
at  us.  They  had  surely  been  surprised  in  their 
sleep.  I  clearly  saw  them  as  their  guns  flashed. 

"Forward!  Don't  shoot!  Ride  on,"  shouted 
Miller.  "Bushwhackers!  Thank  God,  not 
mounted!  Any  of  you  make  out  horses  with 
them?" 

"No,  sir!   No,  sir!" 

"Who  yelled?  who  went  down?" 


THE   RIDE   BY   NIGHT  205 

"Kennedy,  sir,"  I  cried. 

"Too  bad!    Any  one  else?" 

"No,  sir." 

"All  safe?" 

"I'm  touched  in  my  right  arm;  but  it's  noth- 
ing," I  said.  The  twinge  was  slight,  and  in  the 
fleshy  place  in  front  of  my  shoulder.  I  could 
not  make  out  that  I  was  losing  blood,  and  the 
pain  from  the  hurt  was  scarcely  perceptible. 

"Good  boy!  Keep  up,  Adam!"  called  the 
lieutenant  with  a  kind  tone.  I  remember  my 
delight  that  he  spoke  my  front  name.  On  we 
flew. 

Possibly  the  shots  had  been  heard  by  the 
party  half  a  mile  further  on,  for  they  greeted 
us  with  a  volley.  A  horse  coughed  hard  and 
pitched  down  behind  me.  His  rider  yelled  as 
he  fell.  Then  two  more  shots  came :  Crowfoot 
reeled  in  front  of  me,  and  somehow  checked 
his  horse.  I  saw  him  no  more.  Next  moment 
we  were  upon  the  group  with  our  pistols. 

"Forward,  men !  Don't  stop  to  fight !"  roared 
Miller,  as  he  got  clear.  A  rifle  was  fired  so 
close  to  my  head  that  the  flame  burned  my 
back  hair,  and  my  ears  rang  for  half  an  hour 
or  more.  My  bay  leaped  high  and  dashed  down 
a  man.  In  a  few  seconds  I  was  fairly  out  of 
the  scrimmage. 


206  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

How  many  of  my  comrades  had  gone  down 
I  knew  not,  nor  beside  whom  I  was  riding. 
Suddenly  our  horses  plunged  into  a  hole;  his 
stumbled,  the  man  pitched  forward,  and  was 
left  behind.  Then  I  heard  a  shot,  the  clatter 
of  another  falling  horse,  the  angry  yell  of 
another  thrown  rider. 

On  we  went, — the  relics  of  us.  Now  we 
rushed  out  of  the  pine  forest  into  broad  moon- 
light, and  I  saw  two  riders  between  me  and  the 
lieutenant, — one  man  almost  at  my  shoulder, 
and  another  galloping  ten  yards  behind.  Very 
gradually  this  man  dropped  to  the  rear.  We 
had  lost  five  men  already,  and  still  the  night 
was  young. 

Bader  and  Absalom  Gray  were  nearest  me. 
Neither  spoke  a  word  till  we  struck  upon  a 
space  of  sandy  road.  Then  I  could  hear,  far 
behind  the  rear  man,  a  sound  of  galloping  on 
the  hard  highway. 

"They're  after  us,  lieutenant!"  shouted 
Bader. 

"Many?"  He  slacked  speed,  and  we  listened 
attentively. 

"Only  one,"  cried  Miller.  "He's  coming 
fast." 

The  pursuer  gained  so  rapidly  that  we  looked 


THE   RIDE   BY   NIGHT  207 

to  our  pistols  again.  Then  Absalom  Gray 
cried: 

"It's  only  ahorse!" 

In  a  few  moments  the  great  gray  of  fallen 
Corporal  Crowfoot  overtook  us,  went  ahead, 
and  slacked  speed  by  the  lieutenant. 

"Good!  He'll  be  fresh  when  the  rest  go 
down!"  shouted  Miller.  "Let  the  last  man 
mount  the  gray!" 

By  this  time  we  had  begun  to  think  ourselves 
clear  of  the  enemy,  and  doomed  to  race  on  till 
the  horses  should  fall. 

Suddenly  the  hoofs  of  Crowfoot's  gray  and 
the  lieutenant's  bay  thundered  upon  a  plank 
road  whose  hollow  noise,  when  we  all  reached 
it,  should  have  been  heard  far.  It  took  us 
through  wide  orchard  lands  into  a  low-lying 
mist  by  the  banks  of  a  great  marsh,  till  we 
passed  through  that  fog,  strode  heavily  up  a 
slope,  and  saw  the  shimmer  of  roofs  under  the 
moon.  Straight  through  the  main  street  we 
pounded  along. 

Whether  it  was  wholly  deserted  I  know  not, 
but  not  a  human  being  was  in  the  streets,  nor 
any  face  visible  at  the  black  windows.  Not 
even  a  dog  barked.  I  noticed  no  living  thing 
except  some  turkeys  roosting  on  a  fence,  and 


208  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

a  white  cat  that  sprang  upon  the  pillar  of  a 
gateway  and  thence  to  a  tree. 

Some  of  the  houses  seemed  to  have  been 
ruined  by  a  cannonade.  I  suppose  it  was  one 
of  the  places  almost  destroyed  in  Willoughby's 
recent  raid.  Here  we  thundered,  expecting 
ambush  and  conflict  every  moment,  while  the 
loneliness  of  the  street  imposed  on  me  such  a 
sense  as  might  come  of  galloping  through  a 
long  cemetery  of  the  dead. 

Out  of  the  village  we  went  off  the  planks 
again  upon  sand.  I  began  to  suspect  that  I 
was  losing  a  good  deal  of  blood.  My  brain 
was  on  fire  with  whirling  thoughts  and  won- 
der where  all  was  to  end.  Out  of  this 
daze  I  came,  in  amazement  to  find  that  we  were 
quickly  overtaking  our  lieutenant's  thorough- 
bred. 

Had  he  been  hit  in  the  fray,  and  bled  to 
weakness?  I  only  know  that,  still  galloping 
while  we  gained,  the  famous  horse  lurched  for- 
ward, almost  turned  a  somersault,  and  fell  on 
his  rider. 

"Stop — the  paper!"  shouted  Bader. 

We  drew  rein,  turned,  dismounted,  and 
found  Miller's  left  leg  under  the  big  bay's 
shoulder.  The  horse  was  quite  dead,  the  rider's 


THE   RIDE    BY    NIGHT  209 

long  hair  lay  on  the  sand,  his  face  was  white 
under  the  moon ! 

We  stopped  long  enough  to  extricate  him, 
and  he  came  to  his  senses  just  as  we  made  out 
that  his  left  leg  was  broken. 

"Forward !"  he  groaned.  "What  in  thunder 
are  you  stopped  for?  Oh,  the  despatch!  Here! 
away  you  go !  Good-bye." 

In  attending  to  Miller  we  had  forgotten  the 
rider  who  had  been  long  gradually  dropping 
behind.  Now  as  we  galloped  away, — Bader, 
Absalom  Gray,  myself,  and  Crowfoot's  rider- 
less horse, — I  looked  behind  for  that  comrade ; 
but  he  was  not  to  be  seen  or  heard.  We  three 
were  left  of  the  eleven. 

From  the  loss  of  so  many  comrades  the  im- 
portance of  our  mission  seemed  huge.  With 
the  speed,  the  noise,  the  deaths,  the  strange- 
ness of  the  gallop  through  that  forsaken  village, 
the  wonder  how  all  would  end,  the  increasing 
belief  that  thousands  of  lives  depended  on  our 
success,  and  the  longing  to  win,  my  brain  was 
wild.  A  raging  desire  to  be  first  held  me,  and 
I  galloped  as  if  in  a  dream. 

Bader  led;  the  riderless  gray  thundered  be- 
side him ;  Absalom  rode  stirrup  to  stirrup  with 
me.  He  was  a  veteran  of  the  whole  war. 


210  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Where  it  was  that  his  sorrel  rolled  over  I  do 
not  remember  at  all,  though  I  perfectly  re- 
member how  Absalom  sprang  up,  staggered, 
shouted,  "My  foot  is  sprained!"  and  fell  as  I 
turned  to  look  at  him  and  went  racing  on. 

Then  I  heard  above  the  sound  of  our  hoofs 
the  voice  of  the  veteran  of  the  war.  Down  as 
he  was,  his  spirit  was  unbroken.  In  the  favor- 
ite song  of  the  army  his  voice  rose  clear  and 
gay  and  piercing:— 

"Hurrah  for  the  Union! 
Hurrah,  boys,  hurrah! 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom!" 

We  turned  our  heads  and  cheered  him  as  we 
flew,  for  there  was  something  indescribably 
inspiring  in  the  gallant  and  cheerful  lilt  of  the 
fallen  man.  It  was  as  if  he  flung  us,  from  the 
grief  of  utter  defeat,  a  soul  unconquerable ;  and 
I  felt  the  life  in  me  strengthened  by  the  tone. 

Old  Bader  and  I  for  it!  He  led  by  a  hun- 
dred yards,  and  Crowfoot's  gray  kept  his  stride. 
Was  I  gaining  on  them?  How  was  it  that  I 
could  see  his  figure  outlined  more  clearly 
against  the  horizon?  Surely  dawn  was  not 
coming  on! 

No;  I  looked  round  on  a  world  of  naked 


THE   RIDE   BY   NIGHT  211 

peach-orchards,  and  corn-fields  ragged  with 
last  year's  stalks,  all  dimly  lit  by  a  moon  that 
showed  far  from  midnight ;  and  that  faint  light 
on  the  horizon  was  not  in  the  east,  but  in  the 
west.  The  truth  flashed  on  me, — I  was  look- 
ing at  such  an  illumination  of  the  sky  as  would 
be  caused  by  the  camp-fires  of  an  army. 

"The  missing  brigade !"  I  shouted. 

"Or  a  Southern  division!"  Bader  cried. 
"Come  on!" 

"Come  on!"  I  was  certainly  gaining  on  him, 
but  very  slowly.  Before  the  nose  of  my  bay 
was  beyond  the  tail  of  his  roan,  the  wide  illu- 
minations had  become  more  distinct;  and  still 
not  a  vidette,  not  a  picket,  not  a  sound  of  the 
proximity  of  an  army. 

Bader  and  I  now  rode  side  by  side,  and 
Crowfoot's  gray  easily  kept  the  pace.  My 
horse  was  in  plain  distress,  but  Bader's  was 
nearly  done. 

"Take  the  paper,  Adam,"  he  said;  "my  roan 
won't  go  much  further.  Good-bye,  youngster. 
Away  you  go !"  and  I  drew  now  quickly  ahead. 

Still  Bader  rode  on  behind  me.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  considerably  behind.  Perhaps 
the  sense  of  being  alone  increased  my  feeling 
of  weakness.  Was  I  going  to  reel  out  of  the 


212  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

saddle?  Had  I  lost  so  much  blood  as  that? 
Still  I  could  hear  Bader  riding  on.  I  turned  to 
look  at  him.  Already  he  was  scarcely  visible. 
Soon  he  dropped  out  of  sight;  but  still  I  heard 
the  laborious  pounding  of  his  desperate  horse. 

My  bay  was  gasping  horribly.  How  far  was 
that  faintly  yellow  sky  ahead?  It  might  be 
two,  it  might  be  five  miles.  Were  Union  or 
Southern  soldiers  beneath  it  ?  Could  it  be  con- 
ceived that  no  troops  of  the  enemy  were  be- 
tween me  and  it  ? 

Never  mind;  my  orders  were  clear.  I  rode 
straight  on,  and  I  was  still  riding  straight  on, 
marking  no  increase  in  the  distress  of  my  bay, 
when  he  stopped  as  if  shot,  staggered,  fell  on 
his  knees,  tried  to  rise,  rolled  to  his  side, 
groaned  and  lay. 

I  was  so  weak  I  could  not  clear  myself.  I 
remember  my  right  spur  catching  in  my  saddle- 
cloth as  I  tried  to  free  my  foot ;  then  I  pitched 
forward  and  fell.  Not  yet  senseless,  I  clutched 
at  my  breast  for  the  despatch,  meaning  to  tear 
it  to  pieces;  but  there  my  brain  failed,  and  in 
full  view  of  the  goal  of  the  night  I  lay  uncon- 
scious. 

When  I  came  to,  I  rose  on  my  left  elbow, 
and  looked  around.  Near  my  feet  my  poor 


THE   RIDE   BY   NIGHT  213 

bay  lay,  stone  dead.  Crowfoot's  gray ! — where 
was  Crowfoot's  gray?  It  flashed  on  me  that  I 
might  mount  the  fresh  horse  and  ride  on.  But 
where  was  the  gray?  As  I  peered  round  I 
heard  faintly  the  sound  of  a  galloper.  Was 
he  coming  my  way?  No;  faintly  and  more 
faintly  I  heard  the  hoofs. 

Had  the  gray  gone  on  then,  without  the  de- 
spatch? I  clutched  at  my  breast.  My  coat 
was  unbuttoned — the  paper  was  gone ! 

Well,  sir,  I  cheered.  My  God!  but  it  was 
comforting  to  hear  those  far-away  hoofs,  and 
know  that  Bader  must  have  come  up,  taken  the 
papers,  and  mounted  Crowfoot's  gray,  still 
good  for  a  ten-mile  ride!  The  despatch  was 
gone  forward;  we  had  not  all  fallen  in  vain; 
maybe  the  brigades  would  be  saved! 

How  purely  the  stars  shone !  When  I  stifled 
my  groaning  they  seemed  to  tell  me  of  a  great 
peace  to  come.  How  still  was  the  night!  and 
I  thought  of  the  silence  of  the  multitudes  who 
had  died  for  the  Union. 

Now  the  galloping  had  quite  died  away. 
There  was  not  a  sound, — a  slight  breeze  blew, 
but  there  were  no  leaves  to  rustle.  I  put  my 
head  down  on  the  neck  of  my  dead  horse.  Ex- 
treme fatigue  was  benumbing  the  pain  of  my 


214  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

now  swelling  arm ;  perhaps  sleep  was  near,  per- 
haps I  was  swooning. 

But  a  sound  came  that  somewhat  revived  me. 
Far,  low,  joyful,  it  crept  on  the  air.  I  sat  up, 
wide  awake.  The  sound,  at  first  faint,  died  as 
the  little  breeze  fell,  then  grew  in  the  lull,  and 
came  ever  more  clearly  as  the  wind  arose.  It 
was  a  sound  never  to  be  forgotten, — the  sound 
of  the  distant  cheering  of  thousands  of  men. 

Then  I  knew  that  Bader  had  galloped  into 
the  Union  lines,  delivered  the  despatch,  and 
told  a  story  which  had  quickly  passed  through 
wakeful  brigades. 

Bader  I  never  saw  again,  nor  Lieutenant 
Miller,  nor  any  man  with  whom  I  rode  that 
night.  When  I  came  to  my  senses  I  was  in 
hospital  at  City  Point.  Thence  I  went  home 
invalided.  No  surgeon,  no  nurse,  no  soldier  at 
the  hospital  could  tell  me  of  my  regiment,  or 
how  or  why  I  was  where  I  was.  All  they  could 
tell  me  was  that  Richmond  was  taken,  the  army 
far  away  in  pursuit  of  Lee,  and  a  rumor  flying 
that  the  great  commander  of  the  South  had 
surrendered  near  Appomattox  Court  House. 


"DRAFTED" 

HARRY  WALLBRIDGE,  awaking  with  a  sense 
of  some  alarming  sound,  listened  intently  in 
the  darkness,  seeing  overhead  the  canvas  roof 
faintly  outlined,  the  darker  stretch  of  its  ridge- 
pole, its  two  thin  slanting  rafters,  and  the  gable 
ends  of  the  winter  hut.  He  could  not  hear  the 
small,  fine  drizzle  from  an  atmosphere  sur- 
charged with  water,  nor  anything  but  the  drip 
from  canvas  to  trench,  the  rustling  of  hay 
bunched  beneath  his  head,  the  regular  breath- 
ing of  his  "buddy,"  Corporal  Bader,  and  the 
stamping  of  horses  in  stables.  But  when  a 
soldier  in  a  neighboring  tent  called  indistin- 
guishably  in  the  accents  of  nightmare,  Bader's 
breathing  quieted,  and  in  the  lull  Harry  fancied 
the  soaked  air  weighted  faintly  with  steady 
picket-firing.  A  month  with  the  53d  Pennsyl- 
vania Veteran  Volunteer  Cavalry  had  not  quite 
disabused  the  young  recruit  of  his  schoolboy 
belief  that  the  men  of  the  Army  of  the  Poto- 
mac must  live  constantly  within  sound  of  the 
out-posts. 

Harry  sat  up  to  hearken  better,  and  then 
concluded  that  he  had  mistaken  for  musketry 


216  OLD    MAN    SAVABIN    STORIES 

the  crackle  of  haystalks  under  his  poncho  sheet. 
Beneath  him  the  round  poles  of  his  bed  sagged 
as  he  drew  up  his  knees  and  gathered  about 
his  shoulders  the  gray  blanket  damp  from  the 
spray  of  heavy  rain  against  the  canvas  earlier 
in  the  night.  Soon,  with  slow  dawn's  approach, 
he  could  make  out  the  dull  white  of  his  car- 
bine and  sabre  against  the  mud-plastered  chim- 
ney. In  that  drear  dimness  the  boy  shivered, 
with  a  sense  of  misery  rather  than  from  cold, 
and  yearned  as  only  sleepy  youth  can  for  the 
ease  of  a  true  bed  and  dry  warm  swooning  to 
slumber.  He  was  sustained  by  no  mature 
sense  that  this  too  would  pass;  it  was  with  a 
certain  bodily  despair  that  he  felt  chafed  and 
compressed  by  his  rough  garments,  and  pitied 
himself,  thinking  how  his  mother  would  cry  if 
she  could  see  him  couched  so  wretchedly  that 
wet  March  morning,  pressed  all  the  more  into 
loneliness  by  the  regular  breathing  of  veteran 
Bader  in  the  indifference  of  deep  sleep. 

Harry's  vision  of  his  mother  coming  into  his 
room,  shading  her  candle  with  her  hand,  to  see 
if  he  were  asleep,  passed  away  as  a  small  gust 
came,  shaking  the  canvas,  for  he  was  instantly 
alert  with  a  certainty  that  the  breeze  had  borne 
a  strong  rolling  of  musketry. 


'DRAFTED"  217 


"Bader,  Bader!"  he  said.     "Bader!" 

"Can't  you  shut  up,  you  Wallbridge?"  came 
Orderly  Sergeant  Gravely's  sharp  tones  from 
the  next  tent. 

"What's  wrong  with  you,  Harry,  boy?" 
asked  Bader,  turning. 

"I  thought  I  heard  heavy  firing  closer  than 
the  picket  lines;  twice  now  I've  thought  I 
heard  it." 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,  Harry.  The  Johnnies 
won't  come  out  no  such  night  as  this.  Keep 
quiet,  or  you'll  have  the  sergeant  on  top  of 
you.  Better  lie  down  and  try  to  sleep,  buddy; 
the  bugles  will  call  morning  soon  now." 

Again  Harry  fell  to  his  revery  of  home,  and 
his  vision  became  that  of  the  special  evening  on 
which  his  boyish  wish  to  go  to  the  war  had,  for 
the  family's  sake,  become  resolve.  He  saw  his 
mother's  spectacled  and  lamp-lit  face  as  she, 
leaning  to  the  table,  read  in  the  familiar  Bible ; 
little  Fred  and  Mary,  also  facing  the  table's 
central  lamp,  bent  sleepy  heads  over  their 
school-books;  the  father  sat  in  the  rocking- 
chair,  with  his  right  hand  on  the  paper  he  had 
laid  down,  and  gazed  gloomily  at  the  coals 
fallen  below  the  front  doors  of  the  wood- 
burning  stove.  Harry  dreamed  himself  back 


218  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

in  his  own  chair,  looking  askance,  and  feeling 
sure  his  father  was  inwardly  groaning  over  the 
absence  of  Jack,  the  eldest  son.  Then  nine 
o'clock  struck,  and  Fred  and  Mary  began  to 
put  their  books  away  in  preparation  for  bed. 

"Wait  a  little,  children,"  Mrs.  Wallbridge 
said,  serene  in  tone  from  her  devotional  read- 
ing. "Father  wants  that  I  should  tell  you 
something.  You  mustn't  feel  bad  about  it. 
It's  that  we  may  soon  go  out  West.  Your 
Uncle  Ezra  is  doing  well  in  Minnesota.  Aunt 
Elvira  says  so  in  her  letter  that  came  to-day." 

"It's  this  way,  children,"  said  Mr.  Wall- 
bridge,  ready  to  explain,  now  that  the  subject 
was  opened.  "Since  ever  your  brother  Jack 
went  away  South,  the  store  expenses  have  been 
too  heavy.  It's  near  five  years  now  he's  been 
gone.  There's  a  sheaf  of  notes  coming  due 
the  third  of  next  month;  twice  they've  been 
renewed,  and  the  Philadelphia  men  say  they'll 
close  me  up  this  time  sure.  If  I  had  eight 
hundred  dollars — but  it's  no  use  talking;  we'll 
just  have  to  let  them  take  what  we've  got. 
Times  have  been  bad  right  along  around  here, 
anyhow,  with  new  competition,  and  so  many 
farmers  gone  to  the  war,  and  more  gone  West. 
If  Jack  had  stopped  to  home — but  I've  had  to 


'DRATTED"  219 


pay  two  clerks  to  do  his  work,  and  then  they 
don't  take  any  interest  in  the  business.  Mind, 
I'm  not  blaming  Jack,  poor  fellow, — he'd  a 
right  to  go  where  he'd  get  more'n  his  keep, 
and  be  able  to  lay  up  something  for  himself, — 
but  what's  become  of  him,  God  knows;  and 
such  a  smart,  good  boy  as  he  was!  He'd  got 
fond  of  New  Orleans, — I  guess  some  nice  girl 
there,  maybe,  was  the  reason;  and  there  he'd 
stay  after  the  war  began,  and  now  it's  two 
years  and  more  since  we've  heard  from  him. 
Dead,  maybe,  or  maybe  they'd  put  him  in  jail, 
for  he  said  he'd  never  join  the  Confederates, 
nor  fight  against  them  either — he  felt  that  way 
— North  and  South  was  all  the  same  to  him. 
And  so  he's  gone ;  and  I  don't  see  my  way  now 
at  all.  Ma,  if  it  wasn't  for  my  lame  leg,  I'd 
take  the  bounty.  It'd  be  something  for  you 
and  the  children  after  the  store's  gone." 

"Sho,  pa!  don't  talk  that  way!  You're  too 
down-hearted.  It  '11  all  come  right,  with  the 
Lord's  help,"  said  Harry's  mother.  How 
clearly  he,  in  the  damp  cold  tent,  could  see 
her  kind  looks  as  she  pushed  up  her  spectacles 
and  beamed  on  her  husband;  how  distinctly, 
in  the  still  dim  dawn,  he  heard  her  soothing 
tones ! 


220  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

It  was  that  evening's  talk  which  had  sent 
Harry,  so  young,  to  the  front.  Three  village 
boys,  little  older  than  he,  had  already  contrived 
to  enlist.  Every  time  he  saw  the  Flag  droop- 
ing, he  thought  shame  of  himself  to  be  absent 
from  the  ranks  of  its  upholders;  and  now,  just 
as  he  was  believing  himself  big  and  old  enough 
to  serve,  he  conceived  that  duty  to  his  parents 
distinctly  enjoined  him  to  go.  So  in  the  night, 
without  leave-taking  or  consent  of  his  parents, 
he  departed.  The  combined  Federal,  State, 
and  city  bounties  offered  at  Philadelphia 
amounted  to  nine  hundred  dollars  cash  that 
dreadful  winter  before  Richmond  fell,  and 
Harry  sent  the  money  home  triumphantly  in 
time  to  pay  his  father's  notes  and  save  the 
store. 

While  the  young  soldier  thought  it  all  over, 
carbine  and  sabre  came  out  more  and  more 
distinctly  outlined  above  the  mud-plastered 
fireplace.  The  drizzle  had  ceased,  the  drip  into 
the  trench  was  almost  finished,  intense  stillness 
ruled;  Harry  half  expected  to  hear  cocks  crow 
from  out  such  silence. 

Listening  for  them,  his  dreamy  mind 
brooded  over  both  hosts,  in  a  vision  even  as 
wide  as  the  vast  spread  of  the  Republic  in 


'DRAFTED"  221 


which  they  lay  as  two  huddles  of  miserable 
men.  For  what  were  they  all  about  him  this 
woful,  wet  night?  they  all  fain,  as  he,  for  home 
and  industry  and  comfort.  What  delusion 
held  them?  How  could  it  be  that  they  could 
not  all  march  away  and  separate,  and  the  cruel 
war  be  over?  Harry  caught  his  breath  at  the 
idea, — it  seemed  so  natural,  simple,  easy,  and 
good  a  solution.  Becoming  absorbed  in  the 
fancy,  tired  of  listening,  and  soothed  by  the 
silence,  he  was  falling  asleep  as  he  sat,  when 
a  heavy  weight  seemed  to  fall,  far  away.  An- 
other— another — the  fourth  had  the  rumble  of 
distant  thunder,  and  seemed  followed  by  a  con- 
cussion of  the  air. 

"Hey — Big  Guns!  What's  up  toward  City 
Point?"  cried  Bader,  sitting  up.  "I  tell  you 
they're  at  it.  It  can't  be  so  far  away  as  Butler. 
What?  On  the  left  too!  That  was  toward 
Hatcher's  Run!  Harry,  the  rebs  are  out  in 
earnest !  I  guess  you  did  hear  the  pickets  try- 
ing to  stop  'em.  What  a  morning!  Ha — Fort 
Hell!  see  that!" 

The  outside  world  was  dimly  lighted  up  for 
a  moment.  In  the  intensified  darkness  that 
followed  Bader's  voice  was  drowned  by  the 
crash  of  a  great  gun  from  the  neighboring  fort. 


222  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Flash,  crash — flash,  crash — flash,  crash  suc- 
ceeded rapidly.  Then  the  intervals  of  Fort 
Hell's  fire  lengthened  to  the  regular  periods 
for  loading,  and  between  her  roars  were  heard 
the  sullen  boom  of  more  distant  guns,  while 
through  all  the  tumult  ran  a  fierce  undertone,— 
the  infernal  hurrying  of  musketry  along  the 
immediate  front. 

"The  Johnnies  must  have  got  in  close  some- 
how," cried  Bader.  "Hey,  Sergeant?" 

"Yes,"  shouted  Gravely.  "Scooped  up  the 
pickets  and  supports  too  in  the  rain,  I  guess. 
Turn  out,  boys,  turn  out !  there'll  be  a  wild  day. 
Kid!  Where's  the  Kid?  Kid  Sylvester!" 

"Here!  All  right,  Barney;  I'll  be  out  in 
two  shakes,"  shouted  the  bugler. 

"Hurry,  then!  I  can  hear  the  Colonel 
shouting  already.  Man,  listen  to  that!" — as 
four  of  Fort  Hell's  guns  crashed  almost 
simultaneously.  "Brownie!  Greasy  Cook! 
O  Brownie!" 

"Here!"  shouted  the  cook. 

"Get  your  fire  started  right  away,  and  see 
what  salt  horse  and  biscuit  you  can  scare  up. 
Maybe  we'll  have  time  for  a  snack." 

"Turn  out,  Company  K!"  shouted  Lieu- 
tenant Bradley,  running  down  from  the 


'DRATTED"  223 


officers'  quarters.  "Where's  the  commissary 
sergeant?  There? — all  right — give  out  feed 
right  away!  Get  your  oats,  men,  and  feed 
instantly !  We  may  have  time.  Hullo !  here's 
the  General's  orderly." 

As  the  trooper  galloped,  in  a  mud-storm, 
across  the  parade  ground,  a  group  of  officers 
ran  out  behind  the  Colonel  from  the  screen 
of  pine  saplings  about  Regimental  Head- 
quarters. The  orderly  gave  the  Colonel  but 
a  word,  and,  wheeling,  was  off  again  as  "Boot 
and  saddle"  blared  from  the  buglers,  who  had 
now  assembled  on  parade. 

"But  leave  the  bits  out — let  your  horses 
feed!"  cried  the  Lieutenant,  running  down 
again.  "We're  not  to  march  till,  further 
orders." 

Beyond  the  screen  of  pines  Harry  could  see 
the  tall  canvas  ridges  of  the  officers'  cabins 
lighted  up.  Now  all  the  tents  of  the  regiment, 
row  behind  row,  were  faintly  luminous,  and  the 
renewed  drizzle  of  the  dawn  was  a  little  light- 
ened in  every  direction  by  the  canvas-hidden 
candles  of  infantry  regiments,  the  glare  of 
numerous  fires  already  started,  and  sparks 
showering  up  from  the  cook-houses  of  com- 
pany after  company. 


224  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Soon  in  the  cloudy  sky  the  cannonade  rolled 
about  in  broad  day,  which  was  still  so  gray 
that  long  wide  flashes  of  flame  could  be  seen  to 
spring  far  out  before  every  report  from  the 
guns  of  Fort  Hell,  and  in  the  haze  but  few  of 
the  rebel  shells  shrieking  along  their  high  curve 
could  be  clearly  seen  bursting  over  Hancock's 
cheering  men.  Indistinguishably  blent  were 
the  sounds  of  hosts  on  the  move,  field-guns 
pounding  to  the  front,  troops  shouting,  the 
clink  and  rattle  of  metal,  officers  calling,  bugles 
blaring,  drums  rolling,  mules  screaming, — all 
heard  as  a  running  accompaniment  to  the 
cannon  heavily  punctuating  the  multitudinous 
din. 

"Fwat  sinse  in  the  ould  man  bodderin'  us?" 
grumbled  Corporal  Kennedy,  a  tall  Fenian 
dragoon  from  the  British  army.  "Sure,  ain't 
it  as  plain  as  the  sun — and  faith  the  same's  not 
plain  this  dirthy  mornin' — that  there's  no  work 
for  cavalry  the  day,  barrin'  it's  escortin'  the 
doughboys'  prisoners,  if  they  take  any? — bad 
'cess  to  the  job.  Sure  it's  an  infantry  fight, 
and  must  be,  wid  the  field-guns  helpin',  and 
the  siege  pieces  boomin'  away  over  the  throops 
in  the  mud  betwigst  our  own  breastworks  and 
the  inner  line  of  our  forts." 


'DRATTED"  225 


"Oh,  by  this  and  by  that,"  the  corporal 
grumbled  on,  "ould  Lee's  not  the  gintleman  I 
tuk  him  for  at  all,  at  all, — discomfortin'  us  in 
the  rain, — and  yesterday  an  illigant  day  for 
fightin'.  Couldn't  he  wait,  like  the  dacint  ould 
boy  he's  reported,  for  a  dhry  mornin',  instead 
av  turnin'  his  byes  out  in  the  shlush  and  de- 
stroyin'  me  chanst  av  breakfast?  It's  spring 
chickens  I'd  ordhered." 

"You  may  get  up  to  spring-chicken  country 
soon,  now,"  said  Bader.  "I'm  thinking  this  is 
near  the  end;  it's  the  last  assault  that  Lee  will 
ever  deliver." 

"Faith,  I  dunno,"  said  the  corporal;  "that's 
what  we've  been  saying  sinst  last  fall,  but  the 
shtay  of  them  Johnnies  bates  Banagher  and 
the  prophets.  Hoo — ow!  by  the  powers!  did 
you  hear  them  yell?  Fwat?  The  saints  be  wid 
us !  who'd  'a'  thought  it  possible  ?  Byes !  Bader ! 
Harry!  luk  at  the  Johnnies  swarmin'  up  the 
face  of  Hell!" 

Off  there  Harry  could  dimly  see,  rising  over 
the  near  horizon  made  by  tents,  a  straggling 
rush  of  men  up  the  steep  slope,  while  the  rebel 
yell  came  shrill  from  a  multitude  behind  on  the 
level  ground  that  was  hidden  from  the  place 
occupied  by  the  cavalry  regiment.  In  the  next 


226  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

moment  the  force  mounting  Fort  Hell's  slope 
fell  away,  some  lying  where  shot  down,  some 
rolling,  some  running  and  stumbling  in  heaps; 
then  a  tremendous  musketry  and  field-gun  fire 
growled  to  and  fro  under  the  heavy  smoke 
round  and  about  and  out  in  front  of  the  em- 
brasures, which  had  never  ceased  their  regular 
discharge  over  the  heads  of  the  fort's  defenders 
and  immediate  assailants. 

Suddenly  Harry  noted  a  slackening  of  the 
battle;  it  gradually  but  soon  dropped  away  to 
nothing,  and  now  no  sound  of  small-arms  in 
any  direction  was  heard  in  the  lengthening 
intervals  of  reports  from  the  siege  pieces  far 
and  near. 

"And  so  that's  the  end  of  it,"  said  Kennedy. 
"Sure  it  was  hot  work  for  a  while!  Faix,  I 
thought  onct  the  doughboys  was  nappin'  too 
long,  and  ould  Hell  would  be  bullyin'  away  at 
ourselves.  Now,  thin,  can  we  have  a  bite  in 
paice?  I'll  shtart  wid  a  few  sausages,  Brownie, 
and  you  may  send  in  the  shpring  chickens  wid 
some  oyshters  the  second  coorse.  No!  Oh, 
by  the  powers,  't  is  too  mane  to  lose  a  breakfast 
like  that!"  and  Corporal  Kennedy  shook  his 
fist  at  the  group  of  buglers  calling  the  regiment 
to  parade. 


'DRAFTED"  227 


In  ten  minutes  the  Fifty-third  had  formed  in 
column  of  companies.  "Old  Jimmy,"  their 
Colonel,  had  galloped  down  at  them  and  once 
along  their  front;  then  the  command,  forming 
fours  from  the  right  front,  moved  off  at  a  trot 
through  the  mud  in  long  procession. 

"Didn't  I  know  it?"  said  Kennedy;  "it's 
escortin'  the  doughboys'  prisoners,  that's  all 
we're  good  for  this  outrageous  day.  Oh,  wirra, 
wirrasthru!  Police  duty!  and  this  calls  itself 
a  cavalry  rigiment.  Mounted  Police  duty, — 
escortin'  doughboys'  prisoners!  Faix,  I  might 
as  well  be  wid  Her  Majesty's  dhragoons, 
thramplin'  down  the  flesh  and  blood  of  me  in 
poor  ould  Oireland.  Begor,  Harry,  me  bhy, 
it's  a  mane  job  to  be  setting  you  at,  and  this 
the  first  day  ye're  mounted  to  save  the  Union!" 

"Stop  coddin'  the  boy,  Corporal,"  said 
Bader,  angrily.  "You  can't  think  how  an 
American  boy  feels  about  this  war." 

"An  Amerikin! — an  Amerikin,  is  it?  Let 
me  insthruct  ye  thin,  Misther  Bader,  that  I'm 
as  good  an  Amerikin  as  the  next  man.  Och, 
be  jabers,  me  that's  been  in  the  color  you  see 
ever  since  the  Prisident  first  called  for  men! 
It  was  for  a  three  months'  dance  he  axed  us 
first.  Me,  that's  re-enlishted  twice,  don't  know 


228  OLD    MAN    SAYARIN    STORIES 

the  feelin's  of  an  Amerikin!  What  am  I  here 
for?  Not  poverty!  sure  I'd  enough  of  that 
before  ever  I  seen  Ameriky !  What  am  I  wal- 
lopin'  through  the  mud  for  this  mornin'?" 

"It's  your  trade,  Kennedy,"  said  Bader,  with 
disgust. 

"Be  damned  to  you,  man!"  said  the  corporal, 
sternly.  "When  I  touched  fut  in  New  York, 
didn't  I  swear  that  I'd  never  dhraw  swoord 
more,  barrin'  it  was  agin  the  ould  red  tyrant 
and  oprissor  of  me  counthry?  Wasn't  I  glad 
to  be  dhrivin'  me  own  hack  next  year  in  Phila- 
medink  like  a  gintleman?  Oh,  the  paice  and 
the  indipindence  of  it!  But  what  cud  I  do 
when  the  counthry  that  tuk  me  and  was  good 
to  me  wanted  an  ould  dhragoon?  An  Amer- 
ikin, ye  say!  Faith,  the  heart  of  me  is  Amer- 
ikin, if  I'm  a  bog  throtter  by  the  tongue.  Mind 
that  now,  me  bould  man!" 

Harry  heard  without  heeding  as  the  horses 
spattered  on.  Still  wavered  in  his  ears  the 
sounds  of  the  dawn;  still  he  saw  the  ghostlike 
forms  of  Americans  in  gray  tumbling  back 
from  their  rush  against  the  sacred  flag  that  had 
drooped  so  sadly  over  the  smoke;  and  still,  far 
away  beyond  all  this  puddled  and  cumbered 
ground  the  dreamy  boy  saw  millions  of  white 


'DRAFTED"  229 


American  faces,  all  haggard  for  news  of  the 
armies — some  looking  South,  some  North, 
yearning  for  the  Peace  that  had  so  long  ago 
been  the  boon  of  the  Nation. 

Now  the  regiment  was  upon  the  red  clay  of 
the  dead  fight,  and  brought  to  halt  in  open 
columns.  After  a  little  they  moved  off  again 
in  fours,  and,  dropping  into  single  file,  sur- 
rounded some  thousands  of  disarmed  men,  the 
remnant  of  the  desperate  brigades  that  Lee 
had  flung  through  the  night  across  three  lines 
of  breastworks  at  the  great  fort  they  had  so 
nearly  stormed.  Poor  drenched,  shivering 
Johnnies!  there  they  stood,  not  a  few  of  them 
in  blue  overcoats,  but  mostly  in  butternut, 
generally  tattered;  some  barefoot,  some  with 
feet  bound  in  ragged  sections  of  blanket,  many 
with  toes  and  skin  showing  through  crazy  boots 
lashed  on  with  strips  of  cotton  or  with  cord; 
many  stoutly  on  foot,  streaming  blood  from 
head  wounds. 

Some  lay  groaning  in  the  mud,  while  their 
comrades  helped  Union  surgeons  to  bind  or 
amputate.  Here  and  there  groups  huddled  to- 
gether in  earnest  talk,  or  listened  to  comrades 
gesticulating  and  storming  as  they  recounted 
incidents  of  the  long  charge.  But  far  the 


230  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

greater  number  faced  outward,  at  gaze  upon 
the  cavalry  guard,  and,  silently  munching  thick 
flat  cakes  of  corn-bread,  stared  into  the  faces 
of  the  horsemen.  Harry  Wallbridge,  brought 
to  the  halt,  faced  half  round  in  the  saddle,  and 
looked  with  quick  beatings  of  pity  far  and  wide 
over  the  disorderly  crowd  of  weather-worn 
men. 

"It's  a  Louisiana  brigade,"  said  Bader. 

"Fifty-three,  P.  V.  V.  C.,"  spoke  a  prisoner, 
as  if  in  reply,  reading  the  letters  about  the 
little  crossed  brass  sabres  on  the  Union  hats. 
"Say,  you  men  from  Pennsylvany?" 

"Yes,  Johnny;  we  come  down  to  wake  up 
Dixie." 

"I  reckon  we  got  the  start  at  wakin'  you 
this  mornin',"  drawled  the  Southerner.  "But 
say, — there's  one  of  our  boys  lyin*  dyin'  over 
yonder ;  his  folks  lives  in  Pennsylvany.  Mebbe 
some  of  you  'ud  know  'em." 

"What's  his  name?"  asked  Bader. 

"Wallbridge— Johnny  Wallbridge." 

"Why,  Harry — hold  on ! — you  ain't  the  only 
Wallbridges  there  is.  What's  up?"  cried 
Bader,  as  the  boy  half  reeled,  half  clambered 
from  his  saddle. 

"Hold  on,  Harry!"  cried  Corporal  Kennedy. 


'DRAFTED"  231 


"Halt  there,  Wallbridge !"  shouted  Sergeant 
Gravely. 

"Stop  that  man!"  roared  Lieutenant  Brad- 
ley. 

But,  calling,  "He's  my  brother!"  Harry, 
catching  up  his  sabre  as  he  ran,  followed  the 
Southerner,  who  had  instantly  divined  the 
situation.  The  forlorn  prisoners  made  ready 
way  for  them,  and  closing  in  behind,  stretched 
in  solid  array  about  the  scene. 

"It's  not  Jack,"  said  the  boy;  but  something 
in  the  look  of  the  dying  man  drew  him  on  to 
kneel  in  the  mud.  "Is  it  you,  Jack?  Oh,  now 
I  know  you!  Jack,  I'm  Harry!  don't  you 
know  me?  I'm  Hariy — your  brother  Harry." 

The  Southern  soldier  stared  rigidly  at  the 
boy,  seeming  to  grow  paler  with  the  recollec- 
tions that  he  struggled  for. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked  very  faintly. 

"Harry  Wallbridge — I'm  your  brother." 

"Harry  Wallbridge !  Why,  Iym  John  Wall- 
bridge.  Did  you  say  Harry?  Not  Harry!" 
he  shrieked  hoarsely.  "No;  Harry's  only  a 
little  fellow!"  He  paused,  and  looked  medi- 
tatively into  the  boy's  eyes.  "It's  nearly  five 
years  I've  been  gone, — he  was  near  twelve 
then.  Boys,"  lifting  his  head  painfully  and 


232  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

casting  his  look  slowly  round  upon  his  com- 
rades, "I  know  him  by  the  eyes;  yes,  he's  my 
brother!  Let  me  speak  to  him  alone — stand 
back  a  bit,'*  and  at  once  the  men  pushed  back- 
ward into  the  form  of  a  wide  circle. 

"Put  down  your  head,  Harry.  Kiss  me! 
Kiss  me  again! — how's  mother?  Ah,  I  was 
afraid  she  might  be  dead — don't  tell  her  I'm 
dead,  Harry."  He  groaned  with  the  pain  of 
the  groin  wound.  "Closer,  Harry;  I've  got  to 
tell  you  this  first — maybe  it's  all  I've  time  to 
tell.  Say,  Harry," — he  began  to  gasp,— -"they 
didn't  ought  to  have  killed  me,  the  Union 
soldiers  didn't.  I  never  fired — high  enough- 
all  these  years.  They  drafted  me,  Harry — tell 
mother  that — down  in  New  Orleans — and  I — 
couldn't  get  away.  Ai — ai!  how  it  hurts!  I 
must  die  soon's  I  can  tell  you.  I  wanted  to 
come  home — and  help  father — how's  poor 
father,  Harry?  Doing  well  now?  Oh,  I'm 
glad  of  that — and  the  baby?  there's  a  new 
baby!  Ah,  yes,  I'll  never  see  it,  Harry." 

His  eyes  closed,  the  pain  seemed  to  leave 
him,  and  he  lay  almost  smiling  happily  as  his 
brother's  tears  fell  on  his  muddy  and  blood- 
clotted  face.  As  if  from  a  trance  his  eyes 
opened,  and  he  spoke  anxiously  but  calmly. 


DRATTED"  233 


"You'll  be  sure  to  tell  them  I  was  drafted 
— conscripted,  you  understand.  And  I  never 
fired  at  any  of  us — of  you — tell  all  the  boys 
that"  Again  the  flame  of  life  went  down,  and 
again  flickered  up  in  pain. 

"Harry — you'll  stay  by  father — and  help 
him,  won't  you?  This  cruel  war — is  almost 
over.  Don't  cry.  Kiss  me.  Say — do  you 
remember — the  old  times  we  had — fishing? 
Kiss  me  again,  Harry — brother  in  blue — you're 
on — my  side.  Oh  I  wish — I  had  time — to  tell 
you.  Come  close — put  your  arms  around — 
my  neck — it's  old  times — again."  And  now 
the  wound  tortured  him  for  a  while  beyond 
speech.  "You're  with  me,  aren't  you,  Harry? 

"Well,  there's  this,"  he  gasped  on,  "about 
my  chums — they've  been  as  good  and  kind- 
marching,  us  all  wet  and  cold  together — and 
it  wasn't  their  fault.  If  they  had  known — how 
I  wanted — to  be  shot — for  the  Union !  It  was 
so  hard — to  be — on  the  wrong  side!  But — " 

He  lifted  his  head  and  stared  wildly  at  his 
brother,  screamed  rapidly,  as  if  summoning  all 
his  life  for  the  effort  to  explain,  "Drafted, 
drafted,  drafted — Harry,  tell  mother  and 
father  that.  I  was  drafted.  O  God,  O  God, 
what  suffering  1  Both  sides — I  was  on  both 


234  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

sides  all  the  time.  I  loved  them  all,  North 
and  South,  all, — but  the  Union  most.  O  God, 
it  was  so  hard!" 

His  head  fell  back,  his  eyes  closed,  and 
Harry  thought  it  was  the  end.  But  once  more 
Jack  opened  his  blue  eyes,  and  slowly  said  in  a 
steady,  clear,  anxious  voice,  "Mind  you  tell 
them  I  never  fired  high  enough !"  Then  he  lay 
still  in  Harry's  arms,  breathing  fainter  and 
fainter  till  no  motion  was  on  his  lips,  nor  in  his 
heart,  nor  any  tremor  in  the  hands  that  lay  in 
the  hand  of  his  brother  in  blue. 

"Come,  Harry,"  said  Bader,  stooping  ten- 
derly to  the  boy,  "the  order  is  to  march.  He's 
past  helping  now.  It's  no  use ;  you  must  leave 
him  here  to  God.  Come,  boy,  the  head  of  the 
column  is  moving  already." 

Mounting  his  horse,  Harry  looked  across  to 
Jack's  form.  For  the  first  time  in  two  years 
the  famous  Louisiana  brigade  trudged  on  with- 
out their  unwilling  comrade.  There  he  lay, 
alone,  in  the  Union  lines,  under  the  rain,  his 
marching  done,  a  figure  of  eternal  peace ;  while 
Harry,  looking  backward  till  he  could  no 
longer  distinguish  his  brother  from  the  clay  of 
the  field,  rode  dumbly  on  and  on  beside  the 
downcast  procession  of  men  in  gray. 


A  TURKEY  APIECE 

NOT  long  ago  I  was  searching  files  of  New 
York  papers  for  1864,  when  my  eye  caught 
the  headline,  "Thanksgiving  Dinner  for  the 
Army."  I  had  shared  that  feast.  The  words 
brought  me  a  vision  of  a  cavalry  brigade  in 
winter  quarters  before  Petersburg;  of  the 
three-miles-distant  and  dim  steeples  of  the 
besieged  city;  of  rows  and  rows  of  canvas- 
covered  huts  sheltering  the  infantry  corps  that 
stretched  interminably  away  toward  the  Army 
of  the  James.  I  fancied  I  could  hear  again  the 
great  guns  of  "Fort  Hell"  infrequently  punc- 
tuating the  far-away  picket-firing. 

Rain,  rain,  and  rain!  How  it  fell  on  red 
Virginia  that  November  of  '64 !  How  it  wore 
away  alertness !  The  infantry-men — whom  we 
used  to  call  "doughboys,"  for  there  was  always 
a  pretended  feud  between  the  riders  and  the 
trudgers — often  seemed  going  to  sleep  in  the 
night  in  their  rain-filled  holes  far  beyond  the 
breastworks,  each  with  its  little  mound  of  earth 
thrown  up  toward  the  beleaguered  town. 
Their  night-firing  would  slacken  almost  to 
cessation  for  many  minutes  together.  But 

235 


236  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

after  the  b-o-o-oom  of  a  great  gun  it  became 
brisker  usually;  often  so  much  so  as  to  suggest 
that  some  of  Lee's  ragged  brigades,  their 
march  silenced  by  the  rain,  had  pierced  our 
fore-front  again,  and  were  "gobbling  up"  our 
boys  on  picket,  and  flinging  up  new  rifle-pits 
on  the  acres  reclaimed  for  a  night  and  a  day 
for  the  tottering  Confederacy. 

Sometimes  the  crack-a-rac-a-rack  would  die 
down  to  a  slow  fire  of  dropping  shots,  and  the 
forts  seemed  sleeping;  and  patter,  patter,  pat- 
ter on  the  veteran  canvas  we  heard  the  rain, 
rain,  rain,  not  unlike  the  roll  of  steady  mus- 
ketry very  far  away. 

I  think  I  sit  again  beside  Charley  Wilson, 
my  sick  "buddy,"  and  hear  his  uneven  breath- 
ing through  all  the  stamping  of  the  rows  of 
wet  horses  on  their  corduroy  floor  roofed  with 
leaky  pine  brush. 

That  squ-ush,  squ-ush  is  the  sound  of  the 
stable-guard's  boots  as  he  paces  slowly  through 
the  mud,  to  and  fro,  with  the  rain  rattling  on 
his  glazed  poncho  and  streaming  corded  hat. 
Sometimes  he  stops  to  listen  to  a  frantic  brawl- 
ing of  the  wagon-train  mules,  sometimes  to 
the  reviving  picket-firing.  It  crackles  up  to 
animation  for  causes  that  we  can  but  guess; 


A   TURKEY   APIECE  237 

then  dies  down,  never  to  silence,  but  warns, 
warns,  as  the  distant  glow  of  the  sky  above  a 
volcano  warns  of  the  huge  waiting  forces  that 
give  it  forth. 

I  think  I  hear  Barney  Donahoe  pulling  our 
latch-string  that  November  night  when  we  first 
heard  of  the  great  Thanksgiving  dinner  that 
was  being  collected  in  New  York  for  the  army. 

"Byes,  did  yez  hear  phwat  Sergeant  Cun- 
ningham was  tellin'  av  the  Thanksgivin'  tur- 
keys that's  comin'?" 

"Come  in  out  of  the  rain,  Barney,"  says 
Charley,  feebly. 

"Faith,  I  wish  I  dar',  but  it's  meself  is  on 
shtable-guard.  Bedad,  it's  a  rale  fire  ye've 
got.  Divil  a  better  has  ould  Jimmy  himself 
(our  colonel) .  Ye've  heard  tell  of  the  turkeys, 
then,  and  the  pois?" 

"Yes.  Bully  for  the  folks  at  home!"  says 
Charley.  "The  notion  of  turkey  next  Thurs- 
day has  done  me  good  already.  I  was  thinking 
I'd  go  to  hospital  to-morrow,  but  now  I  guess 
I  won't." 

"Hoshpital!  Kape  clear  av  the  hoshpital, 
Char-les,  dear.  Sure,  they'd  cut  a  man's  leg 
off  behind  the  ears  av  him  for  to  cure  him  av 
indigestion." 


238  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"Is  it  going  to  rain  all  night,  Barney?" 

"It  is,  bad  'cess  to  it;  and  to-morrow  and 
the  day  afther,  I'm  thinkin'.  The  blackness 
av  night  is  outside;  be  jabers!  you  could  cut  it 
like  turf  with  a  shpade!  If  it  wasn't  for  the 
ould  fort  flamin'  out  wanst  in  a  whoile,  I'd  be 
thinkin'  I'd  never  an  oi  in  my  head,  barrin'  the 
fires  in  the  tints  far  an'  near  gives  a  bit  of  dim- 
ness to  the  dark.  Phwat  time  is  it?" 

"Quarter  to  twelve,  Barney." 

"Troth,  then,  the  relief  will  be  soon  coming. 
I  must  be  thramping  the  mud  av  Virginia  to 
save  the  Union.  Good-night,  byes.  I  come  to 
give  yez  the  good  word.  Kape  your  heart  light 
an'  aisy,  Char-les,  dear.  D'ye  moind  the  tur- 
keys and  the  pois?  Faith,  it's  meself  that  has 
the  taste  for  thim  dainties!" 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  be  able  to  eat  a  mite  of 
the  Thanksgiving,"  says  Charley,  as  we  hear 
Barney  squ-ush  away;  "but  just  to  see  the 
brown  on  a  real  old  brown  home  turkey  will 
do  me  a  heap  of  good." 

"You'll  be  all  right  by  Thursday,  Charley, 
I  guess;  won't  you?  It's  only  Sunday  night 
now." 

Of  course  I  cannot  remember  the  very  words 
of  that  talk  in  the  night,  so  many  years  ago. 


A  TURKEY   APIECE  239 

But  the  coming  of  Barney  I  recollect  well,  and 
the  general  drift  of  what  was  said. 

Charley  turned  on  his  bed  of  hay-covered 
poles,  and  I  put  my  hand  under  his  gray 
blanket  to  feel  if  his  legs  were  well  covered 
by  the  long  overcoat  he  lay  in.  Then  I  tucked 
the  blanket  well  in  about  his  feet  and  shoulders, 
pulled  his  poncho  again  to  its  full  length  over 
him,  and  sat  on  a  cracker-box  looking  at  our 
fire  for  a  long  time,  while  the  rain  spattered 
through  the  canvas  in  spray. 

My  "buddy"  Charley,  the  most  popular  boy 
of  Company  I,  was  of  my  own  age, — seven- 
teen,— though  the  rolls  gave  us  a  year  more 
each,  by  way  of  compliance  with  the  law  of 
enlistment.  From  a  Pennsylvania  farm  in  the 
hills  he  came  forth  to  the  field  early  in  that 
black  fall  of  '64,  strong,  tall,  and  merry,  fit  to 
ride  for  the  nation's  life, — a  mighty  wielder  of 
an  axe,  "bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving 
comrade." 

We  were  "the  kids"  to  Company  I.  To 
"buddy"  with  Charley  I  gave  up  my  share  of 
the  hut  I  had  helped  to  build  as  old  Bader's 
"pard."  Then  the  "kids"  set  about  the  con- 
struction of  a  new  residence,  which  stood 
farther  from  the  parade  ground  than  any  hut 


240  OLD    MAN   SAVAEIN    STORIES 

in  the  row  except  the  big  cabin  of  "old 
Brownie,"  the  "greasy  cook,"  who  called  us  to 
"bean — oh!"  with  so  resonant  a  shout,  and 
majestically  served  out  our  rations  of  pork, 
"salt  horse,"  coffee  long-boiled  and  sickeningly 
sweet,  hardtack,  and  the  daily  loaf  of  a  singu- 
larly despondent-looking  bread. 

My  "buddy"  and  I  slept  on  opposite  sides 
of  our  winter  residence.  The  bedsteads  were 
made  of  poles  laid  lengthwise  and  lifted  about 
two  feet  from  the  ground.  These  were  covered 
thinly  with  hay  from  the  bales  that  were  regu- 
larly delivered  for  horse-fodder.  There  was  a 
space  of  about  two  feet  between  our  bedsteads, 
and  under  them  we  kept  our  saddles  and 
saddle-cloths. 

Our  floor  was  of  earth,  with  a  few  flour- 
barrel  staves  and  cracker-box  sides  laid  down 
for  rugs.  We  had  each  an  easy-chair  in  the 
form  of  a  cracker-box,  besides  a  stout  soap- 
box for  guests.  Our  carbines  and  sabres  hung 
crossed  on  pegs  over  the  mantel-piece,  above 
our  Bibles  and  the  precious  daguerreotypes  of 
the  dear  folks  at  home.  When  we  happened 
to  have  enough  wood  for  a  bright  fire,  we  felt 
much  snugger  than  you  might  suppose. 

Before   ever   that   dark   November   began, 


A   TURKEY   APIECE  241 

Charley  had  been  suffering  from  one  of  those 
wasting  diseases  that  so  often  clung  to  and 
carried  off  the  strongest  men  of  both  armies. 
Sharing  the  soldiers'  inveterate  prejudice 
against  hospitals  attended  by  young  doctors, 
who,  the  men  believed,  were  addicted  to  much 
surgery  for  the  sake  of  practice,  my  poor 
"buddy"  strove  to  do  his  regular  duties.  He 
paraded  with  the  sick  before  the  regimental 
doctor  as  seldom  as  possible.  He  was  favored 
by  the  sergeants  and  helped  in  every  way  by 
the  men,  and  so  continued  to  stay  with  the 
company  at  that  wet  season  when  drill  and 
parades  were  impracticable. 

The  idea  of  a  Thanksgiving  dinner  for  half 
a  million  men  by  sea  and  land  fascinated  Char- 
ley's imagination,  and  cheered  him  mightily. 
But  I  could  not  see  that  his  strength  increased, 
as  he  often  alleged. 

"Ned,  you  bet  I'll  be  on  hand  when  them 
turkeys  are  served  out,"  he  would  say.  "You 
won't  need  to  carry  my  Thanksgiving  dinner 
up  from  Brownie's.  Say,  ain't  it  bully  for  the 
folks  at  home  to  be  giving  us  a  Thanksgiving 
like  this?  Turkeys,  sausages,  mince-pies! 
They  say  there's  going  to  be  apples  and  celery 
for  all  hands!" 


242  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN   STORIES 

"S'pose  you'll  be  able  to  eat,  Charley?" 
"Able!  Of  course  I'll  be  able!  I'll  be  just 
as  spry  as  you  be  on  Thanksgiving.  See  if  I 
don't  carry  my  own  turkey  all  right.  Yes,  by 
gum,  if  it  weighs  twenty  pounds!" 
"There  won't  be  a  turkey  apiece." 
"No,  eh?  Well,  that's  what  I  figure  on. 
Half  a  turkey,  anyhow.  Got  to  be;  besides 
chickens,  hams,  sausages,  and  all  that  kind  of 
fixin's.  You  heard  what  Bill  Sylvester's  girl 
wrote  from  Philamadink-a-daisy-oh?  No,  eh? 
Well,  he  come  in  a-purpose  to  read  me  the 
letter.  Says  there's  going  to  be  three  or  four 
hundred  thousand  turkeys,  besides  them  fixin's ! 
Sherman's  boys  can't  get  any ;  they're  marched 
too  far  away,  out  of  reach.  The  Shenandoah 
boys  '11  get  some,  and  Butler's  crowd,  and  us 
chaps,  and  the  blockading  squadrons.  Bill's 
girl  says  so.  We'll  get  the  whole  lot  between 
us.  Four  hundred  thousand  turkeys!  Of 
course  there'll  be  a  turkey  apiece;  there's  got 
to  be,  if  there's  any  sense  in  arithmetic.  Oh, 
I'll  be  choosin'  between  breast-meat  and  hind- 
legs  on  Thanksgiving, — you  bet  your  sweet  life 
on  that!" 

This  expectation  that  there  would  be  a  tur- 
key apiece  was  not  shared  by  Company  I ;  but 


A   TURKEY   APIECE  243 

no  one  denied  it  in  Charley's  hearing.  The 
boy  held  it  as  sick  people  often  do  fantastic 
notions,  and  all  fell  into  the  humor  of  strength- 
ening the  reasoning  on  which  he  went. 

It  was  clear  that  no  appetite  for  turkey 
moved  my  poor  "buddy,"  but  that  his  brain 
was  busy  with  the  "whole-turkey-a-piece"  idea 
as  one  significant  of  the  immense  liberality  of 
the  folks  at  home,  and  their  absorbing  interest 
in  the  army. 

"Where's  there  any  nation  that  ever  was  that 
would  get  to  work  and  fix  up  four  hundred 
thousand  turkeys  for  the  boys?"  he  often  re- 
marked, with  ecstatic  patriotism. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  "Bill  Sylvester's 
girl"  gave  that  flourishing  account  of  the  prep- 
arations for  our  Thanksgiving  dinner.  It  was 
only  on  searching  the  newspaper  files  recently 
that  I  surmised  her  sources  of  information. 
Newspapers  seldom  reached  our  regiment  until 
they  were  several  weeks  old,  and  then  they 
were  not  much  read,  at  least  by  me.  Now  I 
know  how  enthusiastic  the  papers  of  Novem- 
ber, '64,  were  on  the  great  feast  for  the  army. 

For  instance,  on  the  morning  of  that 
Thanksgiving  day,  the  24th  of  November,  the 
New  York  Tribune  said  editorially: — 


244  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"Forty  thousand  turkeys,  eighty  thousand 
turkeys,  one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  tur- 
keys, nobody  knows  how  many"  turkeys  have 
been  sent  to  our  soldiers.  Such  masses  of 
breast-meat  and  such  mountains  of  stuffing; 
drumsticks  enough  to  fit  out  three  or  four 
Grand  Armies,  a 'perfect  promontory  of  pope's 
noses,  a  mighty  aggregate  of  wings.  The  gifts 
of  their  lordships  to  the  supper  which  Gran- 
gousier  spread  to  welcome  Gargantua  were 
nothing  to  those  which  our  good  people  at 
home  send  to  their  friends  in  the  field;  and  no 
doubt  every  soldier,  if  his  dinner  does  not  set 
him  thinking  too  intently  of  that  home,  will 
prove  himself  a  valiant  trencherman." 

Across  the  vast  encampment  before  Peters- 
burg a  biting  wind  blew  that  Thanksgiving 
day.  It  came  through  every  cranny  of  our 
hut;  it  bellied  the  canvas  on  one  side  and 
tightened  it  on  the  other;  it  pressed  flat  down 
the  smoke  from  a  hundred  thousand  mud  chim- 
neys, and  swept  away  so  quickly  the  little  coals 
which  fell  on  the  canvas  that  they  had  not  time 
to  burn  through. 

When  I  went  out  towards  noon,  for  perhaps 
the  twentieth  time  that  day,  to  learn  whether 
our  commissary  wagons  had  returned  from 
City  Point  with  the  turkeys,  the  muddy  parade 


A   TURKEY  APIECE  245 

ground  was  dotted  with  groups  of  shivering 
men,  all  looking  anxiously  for  the  feast's  ar- 
rival. Officers  frequently  came  out,  to  ex- 
change a  few  cheery  words  with  their  men, 
from  the  tall,  close  hedge  of  withering  pines 
stuck  on  end  that  enclosed  the  officers'  quarters 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  parade  ground. 

No  turkeys  at  twelve  o'clock !  None  at  one ! 
Two,  three,  four,  five  o'clock  passed  by,  and 
still  nothing  had  been  heard  of  our  absent 
wagons.  Charley  was  too  weak  to  get  out 
that  day,  but  he  cheerfully  scouted  the  idea 
that  a  turkey  for  each  man  would  not  arrive 
sooner  or  later. 

The  rest  of  us  dined  and  supped  on  "com- 
missary." It  was  not  good  commissary  either, 
for  Brownie,  the  "greasy  cook,"  had  gone  on 
leave  to  visit  a  "doughboy"  cousin  of  the  Sixth 
Corps. 

"You'll  have  turkey  for  dinner,  boys,"  he 
had  said,  on  serving  out  breakfast.  "If  you're 
wanting  coffee,  Tom  can  make  it."  Thus  we 
had  to  dine  and  sup  on  the  amateur  produc- 
tions of  the  cook's  mate. 

A  multitude  of  woful  rumors  concerning  the 
absent  turkeys  flew  round  that  evening.  The 
"Johnnies,"  we  heard,  had  raided  round  the 


246  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STOKIES 

army,  and  captured  the  fowls!  Butler's  col- 
ored troops  had  got  all  the  turkeys,  and  had 
been  feeding  on  fowl  for  two  days!  The  offi- 
cers had  "gobbled"  the  whole  consignment  for 
their  own  use !  The  whole  story  of  the  Thanks- 
giving dinner  was  a  newspaper  hoax!  Noth- 
ing was  too  incredible  for  men  so  bitterly 
disappointed. 

Brownie  returned  before  "lights  out" 
sounded,  and  reported  facetiously  that  the 
"doughboys"  he  had  visited  were  feeding  full 
of  turkey  and  all  manner  of  fixings.  There 
were  so  many  wagons  waiting  at  City  Point 
that  the  roads  round  there  were  blocked  for 
miles.  We  could  not  fail  to  get  our  turkeys 
to-morrow.  With  this  expectation  we  went, 
pretty  happy,  to  bed. 

"There'll  be  a  turkey  apiece,  you'll  see,  Ned," 
said  Charley,  in  a  confident,  weak  voice,  as 
I  turned  in.  "We'll  all  have  a  bully  Thanks- 
giving to-morrow." 

The  morrow  broke  as  bleak  as  the  preceding 
day,  and  without  a  sign  of  turkey  for  our 
brigade.  But  about  twelve  o'clock  a  great 
shouting  came  from  the  parade  ground. 

"The  turkeys  have  come!"  cried  Charley, 
trying  to  rise.  "Never  mind  picking  out  a 


A   TURKEY   APIECE  247 

big  one  for  me;  any  one  will  do.  I  don't 
believe  I  can  eat  a  bite,  but  I  want  to  see  it. 
My  ain't  it  kind  of  the  folks  at  home!" 

I  ran  out  and  found  his  surmise  as  to  the 
return  of  the  wagons  correct.  They  were 
filing  into  the  enclosure  around  the  quarter- 
master's tent.  Nothing  but  an  order  that  the 
men  should  keep  to  company  quarters  pre- 
vented the  whole  regiment  helping  to  unload 
the  delicacies  of  the  season. 

Soon  foraging  parties  went  from  each  com- 
pany to  the  quartermaster's  enclosure.  Com- 
pany I  sent  six  men.  They  returned,  grinning, 
in  about  half  an  hour,  with  one  box  on  one 
man's  shoulders. 

It  was  carried  to  Sergeant  Cunningham's 
cabin,  the  nearest  to  the  parade  ground,  the 
most  distant  from  that  of  "the  kids,"  in  which 
Charley  lay  waiting.  We  crowded  round  the 
hut  with  some  sinking  of  enthusiasm.  There 
was  no  cover  on  the  box  except  a  bit  of  cotton 
in  which  some  of  the  consignment  had  prob- 
ably been  wrapped.  Brownie  whisked  this  off, 
and  those  nearest  Cunningham's  door  saw  dis- 
closed— two  small  turkeys,  a  chicken,  four 
rather  disorganized  pies,  two  handsome  bologna 
sausages,  and  six  very  red  apples. 


248  OLD    MAN    SAVAKIN    STORIES 

We  were  nearly  seventy  men.  The  comical 
side  of  the  case  struck  the  boys  instantly. 
Their  disappointment  was  so  extreme  as 
to  be  absurd.  There  might  be  two  ounces 
of  feast  to  each,  if  the  whole  were  equally 
shared. 

All  hands  laughed;  not  a  man  swore.  The 
idea  of  an  equal  distribution  seemed  to  have  no 
place  in  that  company.  One  proposed  that  all 
should  toss  up  for  the  lot.  Another  suggested 
drawing  lots;  a  third  that  we  should  set  the 
Thanksgiving  dinner  at  one  end  of  the  parade 
ground  and  run  a  race  for  it,  "grab  who  can." 

At  this  Barney  Donahue  spoke  up. 

"Begorra,  yez  can  race  for  wan  turkey  av 
yez  loike.  But  the  other  wan  is  goin'  to 
Char-les  Wilson!" 

There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice.  Charley 
was  altogether  the  most  popular  member  of 
Company  I,  and  every  man  knew  how  he  had 
clung  to  the  turkey  apiece  idea. 

"Never  let  on  a  word,"  said  Sergeant  Cun- 
ningham. "He'll  think  there's  a  turkey  for 
every  man!" 

The  biggest  bird,  the  least  demoralized  pie, 
a  bologna  sausage,  and  the  whole  six  apples 
were  placed  in  the  cloth  that  had  covered  the 


A   TURKEY   APIECE  249 

box.  I  was  told  to  carry  the  display  to  my 
poor  "buddy." 

As  I  marched  down  the  row  of  tents  a 
tremendous  yelling  arose  from  the  crowd  round 
Cunningham's  tent.  I  turned  to  look  behind. 
Some  man  with  a  riotous  impulse  had  seized 
the  box  and  flung  its  contents  in  the  air  over 
the  thickest  of  the  crowd.  Next  moment  the 
turkey  was  seized  by  half  a  dozen  hands.  As 
many  more  helped  to  tear  it  to  pieces.  Barney 
Donahoe  ran  past  me  with  a  leg,  and  two 
laughing  men  after  him.  Those  who  secured 
larger  portions  took  a  bite  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, and  yielded  the  rest  to  clutching  hands. 
The  bologna  sausage  was  shared  in  like 
fashion,  but  I  never  heard  of  any  one  who  got 
a  taste  of  the  pies. 

"Here's  your  turkey,  Charley,"  said  I, 
entering  with  my  burden. 

"Where's  yours,  Ned?" 

"I've  got  my  turkey  all  right  enough  at 
Cunningham's  tent." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  there'd  be  a  turkey 
apiece?"  he  cried  gleefully,  as  I  unrolled  the 
lot.  "And  sausages,  apples,  a  whole  pie — oh, 
say,  ain't  they  bully  folks  up  home!" 

"They  are,"  said  I.     "I  believe  we'd  have 


250  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN   STORIES 

had  a  bigger  Thanksgiving  yet  if  it  wasn't 
such  a  trouble  getting  it  distributed." 

"You'd  better  believe  it!  They'd  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  the  army,"  he  said, 
lying  back. 

"Can't  you  eat  a  bite,  buddy?" 

"No ;  I'm  not  a  mite  hungry.  But  I'll  look 
at  it.  It  won't  spoil  before  to-morrow.  Then 
you  can  share  it  all  out  among  the  boys." 

Looking  at  the  turkey,  the  sick  lad  fell 
asleep.  Barney  Donahoe  softly  opened  our 
door,  stooped  his  head  under  the  lintel,  and 
gazed  a  few  moments  at  the  quiet  face  turned 
to  the  Thanksgiving  turkey.  Man  after  man 
followed  to  gaze  on  the  company's  favorite, 
and  on  the  fowl  which,  they  knew,  tangibly 
symbolized  to  him  the  immense  love  of  the 
nation  for  the  flower  of  its  manhood  in  the 
field.  Indeed,  the  people  had  forwarded  an 
enormous  Thanksgiving  feast;  but  it  was  im- 
possible to  distribute  it  evenly,  and  we  were 
one  of  the  regiments  that  came  short. 

Grotesque,  that  scene?  Group  after  group 
of  hungry,  dirty  soldiers,  gazing  solemnly, 
lovingly,  at  a  lone  brown  turkey  and  a  pallid 
sleeping  boy!  Very  grotesque.  But  Charley 
had  his  Thanksgiving  dinner,  and  the  men  of 


A   TURKEY  APIECE  251 

Company  I,  perhaps,  enjoyed  a  profounder 
satisfaction  than  if  they  had  feasted  more 
materially. 

I  never  saw  Charley  after  that  Thanksgiving 
day.  Before  the  afternoon  was  half  gone  the 
doctor  sent  an  ambulance  for  him,  and  insisted 
that  he  should  go  to  City  Point.  By  Christ- 
mas his  wasted  body  had  lain  for  three  weeks 
in  the  red  Virginia  soil. 


THE  SWARTZ  DIAMOND 

THE  Boer  puzzled  us.  It  was  not  because  he 
loomed  so  big  in  the  haze  against  the  sunset ;  but 
he  seemed  at  a  mile's  distance  to  detect  us.  We 
thought  the  cover  perfect,  for  the  hackthorn 
tops  were  higher  than  our  horses'  heads.  If  he 
from  so  far  could  see  patches  of  khaki  through 
bushes,  his  eyes  must  be  better  than  our  field- 
glasses.  If  he  did  not  see  us,  why  did  he  wave 
his  hat  as  in  salutation? 

"Maybe  he  only  suspect  one  patrol  at  de 
ford.  Vat  you  t'ink,  Sergeant  McTavish?" 
said  Lieutenant  Deschamps  to  me. 

"Perhaps  he  thinks  some  of  his  own  kind 
may  hold  the  ford,"  I  suggested. 

The  others  said  nothing.  They  were  fifteen 
French  Canadians,  including  Corporal  Jong- 
ers.  We  lay  still  behind  our  prone  horses,  and 
kept  our  Krags  on  the  Boer. 

He  seemed  to  diminish  as  he  advanced  slowly 
from  the  mirage,  but  still  he  looked  uncom- 
monly big — and  venerable,  too.  His  hair  and 

beard  grew  long  and  white,  though  he  sat  up  as 

252 


THE    SWARTZ   DIAMOND  253 

alert  as  any  young  man.  At  ten  yards  a  pack- 
pony  followed  him.  When  half  a  mile  away 
the  burgher  raised  both  hands  above  his  head. 

"He  come  for  surrender,  you  t'ink,  ser- 
geant?" Lieutenant  Deschamps  is  a  gentle- 
man. Because  I  was  of  another  race  he  always 
treated  me  with  more  than  the  consideration 
due  to  a  good  non-com.  Or  possibly  it  was  be- 
cause he  knew  I  had  been  advocate  in  Montreal 
before  joining  the  mounted  Canadian  contin- 
gent. 

"Better  keep  down  and  keep  him  covered," 
I  replied.  "That  may  be  a  signal."  I  stared 
about  the  horizon.  The  veldt  was  bare,  except 
for  the  straggle  of  hackthorns  fringing  the 
curve  about  the  ford.  There  could  be  no  other 
Boer  within  three  miles  of  us,  unless  hidden  by 
the  meanderings  of  the  Wolwe,  which  runs 
twelve  feet  below  the  plain.  But  we  had 
searched  ten  miles  of  its  bed  during  the  day. 
Westward  lay  the  kopjes  from  among  which 
the  old  Boer  had  apparently  ridden. 

He  came  calmly  down  the  breach  of  the  op- 
posite bank  and  as  far  as  the  middle  of  the 
brawling  shallow  within  fifty  yards  of  us  be- 
fore Deschamps  cried  "Halt !"  At  the  word  we 
sprang  up,  accoutrements  rattling,  horses 


254  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

snorting.  The  old  burgher  looked  up  at  usx 
quizzically,  passing  his  hand  down  his  beard 
and  gathering  its  length  above  his  mouth  be- 
fore he  spoke. 

"Take  care  some  of  those  guns  don't  go  off," 
he  said,  with  no  trace  of  Dutch  accent. 

"You  surrender?"  Deschamps  stepped  for- 
ward. 

"Sir,  I  am  going  to  Swartzdorp.  Did  you 
not  see  me  hold  up  my  hands?" 

"But  for  sure  you  could  not  see  us  here?" 

He  smiled  and  pointed  up  to  the  sky.  In 
the  blue  a  vulture  swung  wide  above  us.  "So 
I  knew,"  said  the  burgher,  "Khakis  were  hid- 
ing. Boers  would  have  come  out.  They  would 
have  recognized  me." 

"Your  name?" 

"Emanuel  Swartz." 

"Bon!  The  great  landowner!  I  have  much 
pleasure  to  see  you.  Come  in,  monsieur.  Eef 
only  you  brought  in  your  commando,  how 
glad!" 

"They  may  come  yet,"  he  said.  "It  de- 
pends." He  shook  his  rein,  and  the  big  bay 
brought  him  up  the  breach  into  the  midst  of  us. 
The  pack-pony,  which  had  imitated  his  halt, 
followed. 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  255 

"You  will  not  stop  me.  I  have  private  busi- 
ness at  Swartzdorp,"  he  said. 

"Truly  I  regret,"  said  Deschamps.  "But  my 
orders!  Here  you  must  stay,  monsieur,  this 
night.  To-morrow  General  Pole.  He  will  be 
most  glad  to  parole  you,  I  have  hope." 

"Oh,  very  well,  lieutenant,"  said  Swartz, 
philosophically.  "I  dare  say  he  won't  send  me 
to  St.  Helena."  He  dismounted,  leaving  his 
Mauser  strapped  to  his  saddle.  Then  he 
handed  me  his  bandoleer.  "I  make  you  wel- 
come to  my  pack  also,"  he  said  hospitably. 
"There's  some  biltong  and  meal.  Perhaps  it 
will  improve  your  fare." 

"It  will  be  poor  stuff  if  it  doesn't,"  I  told 
him. 

"You  give  your  parole,  sir?"  asked  Des- 
champs. 

"For  the  night,  yes.  I  will  not  try  to  es- 
cape." 

His  cordial,  easy  accents  came  with  a  certain 
surprising  effect  from  one  who  was  so  unkempt 
and,  in  spite  of  his  years,  so  formidable.  I  had 
never  before  seen  one  of  the  great  Boer  land- 
owners. In  his  manner  one  could  perceive,  if 
not  a  certain  condescension,  at  least  the  elevated 
kindness  of  a  patriarchal  gentleman  accus- 


256  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

tomed  to  warm  by  affability  the  hearts  of  many 
descendants  and  dependents.  About  Swartz- 
dorp  we  had  heard  much  of  his  English  mother, 
his  English  wife,  and  his  lifelong  friendship 
with  English  officers  and  gentlemen.  It  did 
not  seem  surprising  that  he  should  have  come 
in  voluntarily  now  that  Bloemfontein  and 
Pretoria  were  in  Lord  Roberts's  hands. 

It  was  cold  for  us  in  khaki  that  evening  by 
the  Wolwe,  though  we  did  not  lack  overcoats. 
The  spruit  tinkled  icily  along  patches  of  gravel 
in  the  blue  clay,  and  late  June's  high  moon 
seemed  pouring  down  a  Canadian  wintriness. 
"No  fire,"  ordered  Deschamps,  lest  far-sighted 
Boer  parties,  skilled  in  surprises,  might  locate 
us.  But  the  old  burgher  showed  how  to  make 
small  glowing  heaps  of  dry  offal,  which  had 
been  plentifully  left  of  old  by  troops  of  deer 
and  antelope  coming  to  drink  at  the  spruit. 
Over  one  of  these  tiny  smokeless  fires  our  lieu- 
tenant sat  with  the  prisoner.  I  think  I  see 
again  the  reflection  of  the  little  flame  flicker- 
ing on  the  old  giant's  enormous  beard  and 
shapely  outspread  hands. 

We  had  supped  heavily  on  his  meat  and 
meal,  but  sleep  in  that  nipping  air  came  by 
dozes  only,  and  drowsiness  departed  when 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  257 

digestion  had  relieved  repletion.  At  midnight, 
when  the  vedettes  were  changed  and  the  moon 
sagged  low,  we  all  were  more  wakeful  than 
early  in  the  evening.  There  had  been  little  talk, 
and  that  in  the  low  voices  of  endurance;  but 
now  Deschamps  and  Swartz  fell  into  discourse 
about  the  Kimberley  mines.  This  led  to  dis- 
cussing the  greater  diamonds  of  South  Africa, 
and  so  on  till  the  burgher  began  a  story 
stranger  than  fiction : 

"One  of  the  biggest  stones  ever  taken  from 
blue  clay  is  still  uncut.  It  has  never  been 
offered  for  sale.  Near  this  very  place  it  was 
found  by  Vassell  Swartz,  my  cousin.  The  man 
is  not  rich  even  for  a  Free  State  burgher.  He 
is  fond  of  money.  He  believes  his  diamond  to 
be  worth  twelve  thousand  pounds.  No  man 
could  wish  harder  to  sell  anything.  And  yet 
he  has  not  offered  it.  He  has  not  even  shown 
it.  His  wife  has  not  seen  it.  He  has  had  it  con- 
stantly near  him  for  eleven  years.  He  has 
handled  it  frequently — in  its  setting.  But  he 
has  not  ventured  to  look  at  it  since  the  morning 
after  he  found  it.  You  wonder  at  that.  Is  it 
possible  a  rough  diamond  can  shine  so  bright 
as  dangerously  to  dazzle  the  eyes  ?  No ;  Vassell 
would  be  glad  to  stare  at  it  all  day.  But  its 


258  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

setting  prevents  him.  And  yet  he  set  it  him- 
self." 

The  old  burgher  paused  and  looked  about  on 
our  puzzled  faces  with  some  air  of  satisfaction 
at  their  interest. 

"It  is  quite  a  riddle,"  said  Deschamps. 

"So  it  is.  And  I  will  make  it  harder.  You 
have  been  told  that  we  Boers  think  nothing  of 
killing  Kaffirs?  But  all  Swartzdorp  could  tell 
you  that  my  cousin  Vassell  could  scarcely  bear 
to  let  a  Kaffir  out  of  his  sight.  That  is  mysteri- 
ous ?  Well,  I  will  not  go  on  talking  in  parables. 
I  will  tell  you  the  thing  just  as  I  heard  it  from 
Vassell  or  know  about  it  myself. 

"Eleven  years  ago,  Vassell  and  his  brother, 
my  cousin  Claas,  went  off  as  usual  to  Makori's 
country  beyond  the  Limpopo,  elephant-hunt- 
ing. Ivory  was  so  plenty  that  they  trekked 
back  a  month  earlier  than  they  had  expected. 
On  the  return  Vassell's  riding-horse  fell  lame 
not  long  after  crossing  this  very  Wolwe  spruit 
by  a  higher  ford.  My  cousin  gave  the  beast  no 
rest  till  evening,  and  no  attention  until  after 
they  had  made  a  laager  against  lions  and  had 
eaten  supper.  Then  he  took  a  brand  from  the 
fire  and  looked  into  the  hoof.  In  it  he  found  a 
whitish  stone  of  about  the  bigness  of  an  ele- 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  259 

phant-bullet  of  six  to  the  pound.  It  was  of  the 
colour  of  alum,  and  in  the  torchlight  it  glistened 
as  the  scale  of  a  fish. 

"Vassell  had  never  seen  a  rough  diamond. 
And  he  had  heard  of  diamonds  as  brighter  than 
glittering  glass.  He  thought  only  that  the 
pebble  was  a  pretty  stone.  The  man's  heart 
was  soft  with  nearing  his  wife  and  children,  so 
he  slipped  the  pebble  into  his  empty  elephant- 
bullet  pouch,  thinking  to  give  it  for  a  toy  to  his 
little  Anna.  There  it  lay  forgotten  until  his 
fingers  went  groping  for  a  bullet  at  the  next 
daybreak.  Kaffirs  were  then  trying  to  rush  my 
cousins'  laager. 

"Wild  Kaffirs  these  were,  driven  from  Kim- 
berley  for  unruliness  in  drink.  They  were 
going  back  to  their  tribe;  they  had  come  far 
without  food,  and  they  smelled  the  meat  and 
meal  in  the  wagons — so  Matakit  afterward 
told.  But  no  hunger  could  have  driven  them 
against  a  Boer  laager.  They  mistook  the  wa- 
gons for  the  wagons  of  Englishmen." 

The  French  Canadians  smiled  unoffended, 
but  my  jaws  snapped.  Swartz  turned  to  me 
courteously : 

"They  mistook  the  wagons  for  those  of  Eng- 
lish traders  unskilled  in  arms  and  trekking  pro- 


260  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

visions  to  the  mines.  Though  their  first  rush 
showed  them  their  mistake,  they  went  mad  over 
their  losses  and  came  on  twice  more.  Then  they 
guessed,  from  the  way  my  cousins  reserved 
their  fire,  that  their  ammunition  was  low.  So 
Matakit  howled  them  on  for  a  fourth  rush. 

"My  cousins  and  their  six  Christian  Kaffirs 
were  now  in  alarm,  for  their  cartridges  were 
nearly  all  gone.  It  was  then  that  Vassell's 
fingers  groped  in  his  elephant-bullet  pouch, 
where  he  felt  something  rounding  out  the 
leather.  That  was  the  forgotten  pebble.  But 
its  bigness  was  too  great  for  the  muzzle-load- 
ing elephant-rifle.  So  my  cousin  rammed  it 
into  the  wide-mouthed,  old-fashioned  roer,  a 
blunderbuss  that  our  fathers'  fathers  praised 
because  it  frightened  Kaffirs  more  than  it  hurt 
them.  In  justice  to  the  roer  it  should  have  been 
loaded  with  a  handful  of  slugs.  But  with  only 
powder  and  the  pebble  it  made  such  flash  and 
noise  that  all  the  living  wild  blacks,  but  one, 
ran  away  howling.  The  one  that  fell  before 
Vassell's  pebble  was  the  biggest  of  all,  and  their 
leader.  There  he  lay  kicking  'and  bellowing  like 
a  buffalo  bull,  ten  yards  from  the  wagons. 

"  'While  he  bawled  we  knelt  in  the  laager/ 
Vassell  told  me,  'and  we  offered  up  thanks  for 


THE   SWARTZ  DIAMOND  261 

this  our  deliverance,  even  like  unto  the  deliver- 
ance of  David  by  the  pebble  of  the  brook.' 

"Then  they  ate  breakfast  while  their  Kaffirs 
inspanned,  and  still  the  wild  one  roared. 

'  'It  would  be  merciful,  brother  Vassell,' 
said  Claas  as  they  drank  coffee,  'to  put  the 
Lord's  creature  out  of  his  pain.' 

'  'Nay,'  said  Vassell;  'my  conscience  will  not 
consent  to  what  Free  State  law  might  call 
murder.  And,  moreover,  the  Kaffir's  pain  is  a 
plain  judgment  of  the  Almighty.'  Vassell  is 
a  dopper,  like  Oom  Paul,  and  a  dopper  is  quick 
to  see  the  Almighty  operating  through  himself. 
So  they  left  the  black  thief  gnashing,  with  five 
more  who  lay  still,  meat  for  vultures'  beaks  or 
lions'  jaws. 

"In  four  or  five  hours'  time  my  cousins  were 
nigh  to  Truter's  drift  on  the  Modder.  There 
they  saw  two  Englishmen  and  one  Israelite  dig- 
ging into  the  blue-clay  shoal. 

'  'Good  day,'  shouts  Claas.  'What  are  you 
digging  for?' 

'  'Diamonds,  Dutchman,  d — n  you,'  said  the 
Englishmen,  laughing. 

"They  came  up  out  of  the  river-bed  and 
showed  my  cousins  four  small  rough  stones 
which  they  had  found  elsewhere. 


262  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"Vassell  looked  closely  at  the  stones.  Then 
he  knew  that  his  pebble  had  been  a  great  gem. 
He  put  innocent,  simple  dopper  questions 
about  the  value  of  diamonds.  And  the  Israel- 
ite said  that  a  first-rate  stone  of  the  bigness  of 
more  than  an  elephant-bullet  would  be  worth 
from  twelve  to  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Vas- 
sell felt  that  Israelite's  eyes  piercing  him,  and 
so  he  gave  no  more  sign  of  excitement  than  a 
skull.  But  he  was  wondering  if  the  grand- 
fathers' old  roer  had  sent  the  pebble  through 
the  Kaffir,  which  seemed  unlikely. 

"My  cousins  traded  the  flesh  of  a  spring- 
bok for  cartridges,  and  the  English  went  away 
up  the  spruit,  while  Claas  got  ready  to  cross  at 
Truter's.  But  Vassell  made  delay ;  he  said  that 
hunger  was  rummaging  his  inside. 

"  'And  that  was  the  truth,  Emanuel,'  he  told 
me  later,  'for  we  had  trekked  since  dawn.  But 
it  is  not  always  needful  to  tell  all  the  truth. 
Was  I  to  arouse  in  Claas  a  greedy  desire  to 
share  in  the  diamond?  True,'  said  Vassell,  'we 
had  agreed  to  share  and  share  alike  in  the  hunt, 
but  the  stone  was  not  ivory,  skin,  nor  meat,  and 
I  alone  found  it.  We  are  commanded  to  agree 
with  our  adversary  "in  the  way  with  him." 
And  by  halting  in  that  place  for  the  boiling  of 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  263 

coffee  there  would  be  time  to  pray  for  direction. 
If  the  Almighty  would  have  us  trek  back  to  the 
wounded  Kaffir,  it  would  be  wise  to  turn  before 
crossing  at  Truter's.' 

"Of  course  my  cousin  Claas,  when  he  heard 
of  Vassell's  hunger,  felt  hungry  too,  and  the 
Kaffirs  were  told  to  prepare  the  meal.  Mean- 
time Vassell  took  his  Bible  from  the  wagon- 
box  and  fell  on  his  knees.  He  expected  the 
Lord  would  order  him  back  to  the  Wolwe,  and 
so  it  happened.  But  to  induce  Cla'as  to  obey 
the  Lord's  direction  without  understanding  the 
whole  thing  was  the  trouble. 

"Like  an  inspiration  a  familiar  text  came  to 
Vassell's  mind.  'Blessed  are  the  merciful:  for 
they  shall  obtain  mercy.'  He  showed  this  to 
Claas  as  his  reason  for  turning  about.  The  text 
had  a  new  meaning  for  Vassell.  I  tell  you 
again  he  felt  that  he  had  been  inspired  to  re- 
member it.  You  have  to  bear  that  in  mind,  or 
you  will  not  rightly  understand  how  his  brain 
was  afterward  affected. 

"  'But  it  would  be  foolishness  to  apply  the 
text  to  a  wild  Kaffir  four  hours'  trek  back,'  said 
Claas. 

"  'Nay,  not  if  the  Kaffir  be  subdued,'  said 
Vassell. 


264  OLD    MAN    SAVAEIN    STORIES 

"  'He  is  more  than  subdued ;  he  is  dead,' 
said  Claas. 

"  'Nay,  he  may  not  yet  have  perished,'  said 
Vassell.  But  he  felt  sure  the  black  was  dead. 
And  he  felt  equally  sure  he  had  been  inspired 
to  understand  that  he  himself  should  obtain 
mercy  in  the  shape  of  the  diamond  if  he  re- 
turned even  as  the  good  Samaritan  to  the  Kaffir 
fallen  by  the  way.  Still  Claas  was  stiff-necked, 
until  Vassell  opened  the  Book  at  Jeremiah  iii. 
12:  'Return,  .  .  .  for  I  am  merciful,  saith 
the  Lord.'  He  handed  it  to  Claas  without  a 
word. 

"Claas  naturally  supposed  that  Vassell  had 
opened  the  Bible  at  random,  as  the  doppers 
often  do  when  they  are  seeking  direction.  And 
hence  Claas  saw  in  this  text  a  clear  leading  back 
to  the  Wolwe.  Yet  he  wished  to  rest  and 
smoke  tobacco  for  a  long  hour  after  eating. 
But  Vassell  was  greatly  inspired  with  texts 
that  day.  He  pointed  to  I  Samuel  xx.  38: 
'Jonathan  cried  after  the  lad,  Make  speed, 
haste,  stay  not.'  Then  he  fell  into  such  a  groan- 
ing and  sighing  about  it  that  Cla'as  could  not 
smoke  in  peace. 

'  'Anything  is  better  than  your  rumblings,' 
said  Claas,  and  so  they  hastened  on  the  back- 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  265 

ward  course.  'For/  as  Vassell  told  me,  'I  was 
in  deep  tribulation  of  fear  lest  the  vultures 
might  gulp  down  the  diamond,  or  some  beak 
strike  it  afar.' ' 

Here  the  huge  old  burgher  sat  up  straighter 
and  paused  so  unexpectedly  that  his  sudden  si- 
lence was  startling.  I  imagined  he  listened  to 
something  far  off  in  the  stillness  of  the  wan- 
ing moon.  Lieutenant  Deschamps  and  the 
French  Canadians  sat  indifferent,  but  I  sprang 
up  and  put  hands  to  my  ears.  Nothing  could  I 
hear  but  the  occasional  stamping  of  our  horses, 
the  walking  hoofs  of  our  vedettes  by  the  river's 
bend,  and  the  clinking  of  swift  water  over 
gravel. 

"Did  you  hear  something  strange?"  the  pa- 
triarch asked  me. 

"Did  you?"  I  asked. 

"Is  it  likely  that  a  great-grandfather's  ears 
can  hear  better  than  a  young  man's?"  he  asked 
courteously. 

"But  you  stopped  to  listen,"  I  replied. 

Then  he  shamed  me  by  saying  gently :  "An 
old  voice  may  need  a  little  rest.  But  now  I  will 
go  on: 

"My  cousins  trekked  back  as  fast  as  their 
oxen  could  walk.  They  found  the  Kaffir  still 


266  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

squirming,  and  covering  his  eyes  from  the  vul- 
tures. This  went  to  Vassell's  heart.  He  could 
not  cut  the  diamond  out  of  the  living.  And 
perhaps  it  was  not  in  the  man.  Vassell  drove 
away  the  vultures  and  examined  the  wound. 
Then  his  heart  was  lifted  up  exceedingly,  for 
as  he  told  me,  'fear  had  been  heavy  in  me  lest 
the  diamond  had  gone  clear  through  the  Kaffir 
and  been  lost  on  the  veldt.  But  now  my  fingers 
felt  it  under  the  flesh  of  his  back.  An  inch 
more  had  sent  it  through.  And  it  seemed  so 
sure  the  pagan  must  die  before  morning  that 
my  conscience  was  clear  against  extracting  the 
stone  in  haste.' 

"This  Wolwe  Veldt  was  then  Lion  Veldt, 
and  Vassell  thought  it  prudent  to  carry  the 
Kaffir  into  the  night-laager,  for  lions  bolt  big 
chunks,  and  the  diamond  might  be  in  one  of 
them.  Claas  consented,  and  so  the  tame  Kaffirs 
lugged  the  wild  one  into  one  of  the  ivory- 
wagons,  and  left  him  to  die  at  his  leisure. 

"Late  in  the  night  Vassell,  wakened  by  Claas 
snoring,  felt  a  strong  temptation.  He  might 
get  up  and  knife  out  the  stone  unseen.  'But  I 
put  the  temptation  away/  he  told  me,  'for  my 
movement  might  waken  Claas,  or  the  Kaffir 
might  kick  or  groan  under  the  knife,  and  my 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  267 

brother  might  spy  on  me.  So  I  mercifully 
awaited  the  hour  when  the  Lord  would  let  the 
diamond  come  into  my  hands  without  Claas  sus- 
pecting anything.  Besides,  it  was  'against  my 
conscience  to  cut  the  Kaffir  up  warm  when  it 
seemed  so  sure  he  would  be  cold  before  morn- 
ing.' 

"But  next  morning  the  Kaffir  was  neither 
dead  nor  alive.  And  my  cousins  were  keen  to 
see  their  wives  and  children.  They  must  trek 
on.  But  Vassell  could  not  leave  the  diamond. 
'And  to  end  the  Kaffir's  life  was,'  he  told  me, 
'more  than  ever  against  my  conscience.  That 
first  text,  "Blessed  are  the  merciful:  for  they 
shall  obtain  mercy,"  kept  coming  back  into 
my  mind.  It  scared  me.  It  seemed  to  mean 
I  should  have  the  diamond  to  myself  only  if  I 
spared  the  Kaffir.  If  I  killed  him  Claas  might 
see  me  extract  the  stone  and  claim  half.  More- 
over, I  felt  sure  the  jolting  of  the  wagon  would 
end  the  pagan  soon.' 

"So  they  trekked.  When  they  outspanned 
at  Swartzdorp,  two  days  later,  the  Kaffir  was 
more  alive  than  on  the  first  day.  No  reward 
yet  for  conscientious  Vassell !  He  stayed  only 
a  day  with  his  wife,  and  then  trekked  for 
Bloemfontein  with  the  Kaffir  in  his  horse- 


268  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

wagon.  Claas  stayed  at  Swartzdorp.  And  all 
at  Swartzdorp  thought  Vassell  had  gone  crazy 
about  the  black. 

"I  was  then  residing  in  Bloemfontein,  at- 
tending a  meeting  of  the  Raad.  There  I  saw 
Vassell  gaping  at  me  in  the  market-place. 
Never  before  had  I  seen  trouble  in  the  man's 
face.  When  he  told  me  he  had  brought  a  hurt 
Kaffir  'all  the  miles  from  Swartzdorp  I  felt 
sure  the  man  was  mad. 

"  'It  may  be  the  Kaffir  saved  your  life  from 
lions?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'Nay ;  I  saved  his  life,'  he  groaned.  'For 
we  are  commanded  to  do  good  unto  our  en- 
emies. And,  moreover,  this  is  the  Kaffir  I  fired 
it  into.' 

"  'Fired  what?'  I  asked,  not  then  knowing  a 
word  of  it  all. 

"  'Emanuel,'  he  said,  'my  soul  is  deep  in 
trouble,  and  surely  God  has  sent  you  to  counsel 
me.  He  commanded  me  to  bring  the  Kaffir 
here.  The  text  he  put  into  my  mind  will  not 
go  out  of  my  mind.  I  dream  of  it  each  night, 
and  I  dream  of  the  Kaffir  with  it,  so  it  must 
mean  him.  And  to  be  merciful  that  I  may 
obtain  the  promised  mercy  I  have  brought  him 
to  the  hospital.' 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  269 

'What  does  this  rant  mean?  Put  it  in 
plain  Taal,'  I  said. 

"Vassell  looked  all  about  the  market-place, 
tiptoed  his  lips  to  my  ears,  and  whispered, 
'Come  into  my  horse-wagon.' 

"I  climbed  up  in  front  under  the  cover,  and 
then  heard  breathing  behind  the  seat.  There 
lay  the  Kaffir.  I  turned  on  Vassell  with  'You 
said  you  brought  him  to  the  hospital.' 

'  'I  am  afraid  to  take  him  there.' 

'  'Afraid  they  will  require  you  to  pay?' 

'  'Nay,  that  is  not  the  trouble.  I  will  reveal 
all  to  you.' 

"Then  he  whispered  to  me  all  that  I  have 
told  you,  my  friends. 

'  'It  was  borne  in  on  me,'  Vassell  said,  'that 
the  surgeons  would  cut  out  the  diamond  to  save 
the  Kaffir's  life,  and  thus  I  should  obtain  the 
mercy.  But  now  I  am  in  fear  they  will  not  let 
me  be  present  at  the  operation.  They  will  keep 
the  diamond  if  they  get  time  to  examine  it.' 

"  'Drive  to  the  hospital,'  I  said.  'They  will 
let  you  be  present.  I  will  arrange  that.  Have 
you  money?' 

"Yes;  he  had  sold  his  four  best  tusks  for 
English  gold.  So  he  had  plenty  to  pay  the 
doctors  if  a  bribe  should  prove  necessary. 


270  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"But  it  was  not  needed.  The  house-surgeon 
had  the  Kaffir  carried  in,  and  they  examined 
him  in  our  presence.  Then  they  told  Vassell 
it  was  a  beautiful  case  involving  the  kidneys  in 
some  extraordinary  way,  and  they  wished  to 
watch  what  would  happen  if  Matakit  lived — 
that  was  the  outrageous  Kaffir's  name.  To  cut 
the  bullet  out,  they  said — for  you  may  be  sure 
Vassell  never  mentioned  diamond  to  them — 
would  kill  the  Kaffir.  And  if  they  killed  him 
quickly,  medical  science  might  forego  valuable 
knowledge  which  it  might  gain  if  they  didn't 
operate  an  hour  before  he  was  quite  out  of 
danger  by  the  wound. 

"Think  of  my  conscientious  cousin's  sad 
situation !"  The  old  giant  gazed  about  on  us  as 
if  without  guile.  "Twelve  thousand  pounds! 
And  the  surgeons  would  not  let  him  take  the 
Kaffir  away.  Nor  would  they  let  Vassell  stay 
in  the  ward  with  his  diamond!  And  he  dared 
not  tell  the  doctors  why  the  operation  would 
have  comforted  him,  lest  they  should  secretly 
explore  the  Kaffir  as  diamondiferous  clay!" 

Here  again  the  tale  paused.  A  sardonic 
tone  had  for  an  instant  been  steely  in  the 
genial  voice.  But  the  face  of  the  old  man  was 
as  in  a  placid  dream.  We  volunteers,  trust- 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  271 

ing  all  to  our  vedettes,  grinned,  thinking  only 
of  Vassell's  dilemma.  The  burgher  seemed  to 
ponder  on  it ;  or  maybe,  I  thought,  he  was  rest- 
ing his  voice  again.  So  ten  seconds  passed. 
Then  I  heard  the  rush  and  grunt  of  a  flac-flarc, 
the  veldt  pig.  It  seemed  to  have  been  startled 
out  of  the  spruit  by  a  vedette,  for  we  faintly 
heard  a  horse  snort  and  a  man  scold.  The  moon 
was  now  very  low,  but  'all  seemed  unchanged 
except  for  an  increasing  restlessness  of  the 
picketed  horses.  They  had  replied  to  the  snort 
of  the  vedette's  beast.  In  an  interval  of  tense 
silence,  the  old  Africander  stared  about  on  our 
faces  with  a  curious  inspection  that  I  now  think 
of  as  having  been  one  of  such  pity  as  the  deaf 
perceive  in  other  men's  faces.  But  at  the  time 
I  supposed  he  but  wished  to  assure  himself  that 
all  were  attentively  awaiting  the  rest  of  his 
story. 

Yet  when  the  old  burgher  spoke  again  he 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  great  Swartz  dia- 
mond. 

"Such  silence  on  this  veldt!"  he  murmured. 
"I  remember  it  alive  with  great  game.  Not 
twenty  miles  from  here  I  have  lain  often  awake 
in  the  night  to  a  concert  of  lions  and  hyenas 
and  jackals,  with  the  stamping  of  wildebeests, 


272  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

and  the  barking  of  quaggas,  and  the  rushing 
away  of  springbok  and  blesbok  as  the  breeze 
gave  them  our  scent.  Now  we  hear  nothing, 
my  friends — nothing  whatever  moving  on  the 
plain?" 

"Only  the  horses  and  the  pickets  and  the 
stream,"  said  Deschamps. 

"But  I,"  said  the  old  burgher,  "hear  more. 
I  hear  the  sounds  of  ghosts  of  troops  of  great 
game.  And  I  hear  with  those  sounds  other 
sounds  as  of  the  ghosts  of  a  needless  war."  He 
sighed  heavily,  and  seemed  to  sink  into  sad 
reverie. 

Deschamps  and  his  French  volunteers  would 
not  interrupt  him,  but  I  was  impatient.  "How 
did  your  cousin  get  at  the  diamond?"  I 
asked. 

"He  did  not  get  at  it."  The  whitebeard 
roused  up  amiably  and  resumed  his  tale : 

"And  yet  he  did  not  part  with  it.  For  six 
weeks  the  Kaffir  improved  in  the  Bloemf  ontein 
hospital.  Then  the  day  came  when  the  sur- 
geons told  my  cousin  they  could  learn  nothing 
more  of  the  lovely  case  from  outside.  I  do  not 
know  whether  they  really  meant  to  vivisect  the 
Kaffir,  but  V'assell  was  sure  of  it,  for  he  had 
that  diamond  on  the  brain.  He  longed  to  have 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  273 

the  Kaffir  live  out  his  allotted  span — at  Swartz- 
dorp. 

'  'Surely  I  must  be  with  Matakit  at  his  end- 
ing,' said  Vassell  to  me. 

"Now  Matakit  had  been  told  how  Vassell 
had  mercifully  saved  him,  and  he  wished  for 
nothing  better  than  to  be  Vassell' s  man.  So, 
in  the  night,  after  my  cousin  had  whispered  to 
the  Kaffir  that  the  surgeons  meant  to  cut  him 
open,  Matakit  jumped  out  of  the  hospital  win- 
dow and  hurried  to  Vassell's  horse-wagon  wait- 
ing on  the  Modder  road. 

"My  friends,  to  tell  you  all  the  sad  expe- 
rience of  my  cousin  with  that  Kaffir  I  should 
need  to  be  with  you  for  a  week.  Our  time  for 
talk  together  is  too  short — indeed,  I  seem  to 
hear  it  going  in  the  hackthorn  tops.  But  still 
I  can  give  you  a  little  more. 

"Consider,  then,  that  Vassell's  family  al- 
ready thought  him  demented  for  bringing  the 
wild  black  from  the  Wolwe.  Trekking  with 
him  to  Bloemfontein  was  worse,  and  carrying 
him  back  appeared  complete  lunacy.  But  Vas- 
sell was  the  head  of  a  Boer  family  and  must  be 
obeyed  by  his  household,  from  Tante  Anna,  his 
wife,  to  the  smallest  Kaffir  baby  bred  on  his 
farm. 


274  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

"He  told  no  one  but  me  of  the  battle  in  his 
soul.  It  was  this :  the  more  he  longed  to  knife 
the  diamond  out,  the  more  his  conscience  was 
warned  with  that  text  the  Lord  had  sent  him. 
He  had  now  a  fixed  idea  that  he  would  some- 
how lose  the  diamond  unless  he  was  merciful  to 
Matakit. 

"Out  of  sight  of  the  Kaffir  my  cousin  could 
not  be  easy,  he  feared  so  much  the  black  would 
run  away.  To  prevent  that,  Vassell  at  first  car- 
ried a  loaded  rifle  all  day  long.  At  night  he 
locked  the  Kaffir  in  the  room  partitioned  from 
his  own.  Its  windows  he  barred  with  iron  bars. 
This  was  to  save  Matakit  from  the  Christian 
Kaffirs  on  the  farm.  At  first  they  were  likely 
to  kill  him  in  the  dark,  such  was  their  jealousy 
of  the  wild  man  honored  by  a  bed  in  the  house 
of  the  baas,  while  their  own  Christian  bones  had 
to  rest  in  the  huts  and  the  sheds. 

"But  their  jealousy  changed  to  deadly  fear 
of  Matakit.  They  imagined  that  he  had  be- 
witched the  baas.  Matakit,  being  no  fool,  soon 
smelled  out  that  fear.  As  a  witch  doctor  he 
lorded  it  over  them.  He  began  to  roll  in  fat, 
for  they  brought  to  his  teeth  the  best  of  their 
food.  As  for  their  women! 

"At  last  Tante  Anna  looked  into  this  thing. 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  275 

Then  the  blood  of  her  mother  of  the  Great  Trek 
ran  hot  in  her.  I  happened  to  be  visiting  there 
at  the  time.  She  herself  went  at  the  pagan 
with  the  sjambok.  Vassell  turned  his  back,  for 
he  approved  the  lashing,  but  the  Kaffir  so 
groveled  and  howled  under  the  whip  that  my 
cousin's  conscience  rose  up  untimely.  It  told 
him  that  he  would  be  guilty,  for  the  diamond's 
sake,  of  complicity  in  the  killing  if  he  did  not 
interfere.  Whereupon  he  took  the  sjambok 
from  Tante  Anna's  hands,  and  ordered  her  to 
deal  kindly  with  the  Kaffir,  as  before. 

'  'Kindly !  The  black  beast  is  destroying 
Christianity  on  our  farm!'  she  wailed.  'I  will 
slay  him  with  my  own  hands.  And  I  hope  I 
have  done  it  already ! !' 

"  'Alas !  no,  Anna,'  said  Vassell.  'He  will 
live.  You  have  given  him  a  reason  to  run 
away.' 

'  'Run  away?  I  wish  to  the  Lord  he  would 
run  away !' 

'  'No,  no,  my  woman,'  Vassell  whispered. 
'You  do  not  understand.  Tell  it  to  nobody — 
but  the  Kaffir  is  worth  twelve  thousand  Eng- 
lish pounds  to  me !' 

"She  turned  to  me  laughing.  'Twelve  thou- 
sand pounds.  My  poor  demented  man!' 


276  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

'When  he  dies  I  will  prove  it,'  said  Vassell. 

"  'What!  A  dead  Kaffir  worth  a  fortune?' 
She  was  all  contempt  for  Vassell's  folly. 

"Of  course  he  wished  to  explain  to  her.  But 
he  had  an  opinion  that  Matakit's  days  might 
be  few  if  Tante  Anna  came  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  the  lump  on  Matakit's  black  back. 
Vassell's  uncontrollable  conscience  required 
her  to  be  no  more  unmerciful  to  Matakit.  If 
Anna's  sjambok  cut  out  the  stone,  it  might  be 
lost  in  the  litter  of  the  yard. 

"Well,  my  friends,  the  word  went  up  and 
down  the  Orange  Free  State,  and  far  into  the 
Colony,  and  away  across  the  Vaal,  that 
Burgher  Vassell  Swartz  was  crazy  with  kind- 
ness for  a  wild  Kaffir!  Of  course  I  denied  it, 
and  that  carried  weight,  but  the  mystery  grew, 
for  I  could  not  explain  the  case,  so  strong  was 
Vassell  in  holding  me  to  secrecy.  To  get  my 
cousin  out  of  his  trouble  I  advised  him  to  lend 
Matakit  to  me,  but  he  would  not  agree.  Pos- 
sibly he  suspected  me  of  wishing  to  dig  for  the 
diamond. 

"Ten  years  this  sorrow  lasted,  and  all  the 
time  Matakit  grew  fatter,  till  he  could  scarcely 
walk.  He  was  the  most  overbearing  black  in 
all  South  Africa.  What  he  suspected  I  do  not 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  277 

know,  but  when  he  became  sure  Vassell  would 
not  let  him  be  hurt  much  he  wantonly  abused 
the  patience  of  even  his  devoted  baas.  Poor 
Vassell!  Sometimes,  to  ease  his  sorrows,  he 
used  the  sjambok  on  Matakit,  but  always  too 
gently.  Often  he  raised  his  gun  to  end  it  all; 
indeed,  he  got  into  a  way  of  thinking  that  the 
devil  was  continually  instigating  him  to  kill  the 
Kaffir.  And  every  dopper  knows  that  to  yield 
consciously  to  the  devil  is  the  unforgivable 
sin." 

The  ancient  burgher  paused  once  more. 
And  again  we,  whose  senses  were  trained  but 
to  the  narrow  spaces  between  Canadian  wood- 
lands, heard  nothing  but  a  sudden  louder 
tumult  of  gathered  horses,  the  hoofs  of  the 
vedettes,  and  the  tinkle  of  the  spruit.  I  could 
not  guess  why  old  Emanuel  looked  so  well 
pleased.  He  loomed  taller,  it  seemed,  as  he 
squatted.  It  was  as  if  with  new  vivacity  that 
he  spoke  on: 

"The  strange  things  my  poor  cousin  did!  I 
will  tell  you  of  at  least  one  more.  Five  years  of 
Matakit  went  by,  and  never  again  had  Vassell 
gone  hunting  afar,  for  he  could  not  leave  the 
fat  Kaffir  behind,  and  he  feared  Matakit  would 
run  away  if  he  got  near  the  country  of  his  tribe. 


278  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

But  in  the  sixth  year  a  new  inspiration  came  to 
Vassell.  The  Lord  might  send  a  lion  if  he 
took  Matakit  where  lions  might  be  convenient 
for  sending.  Doppers  'always  regard  lions  as 
dispensations  of  Providence  when  they  kill 
pagan  Kaffirs.  So  he  brought  Matakit  afar  to 
the  Lion  Veldt.  There  Vassell  would  not  let 
his  men  make  a  laager — he  slept  in  'a  wagon 
himself.  And  the  Lord  did  send  a  lion  in  the 
night.  The  blacks  lay  by  the  fire.  And  when 
it  fell  low  that  lion  bore  a  man  away  out  into 
the  darkness  at  two  leaps. 

''Baas!  ba'as!'  Vassell  heard  his  Kaffirs 
shout.  'Baas!  The  lion  has  taken  Matakit!' 
For  they  had  been  dozing,  and  now  missed  the 
fat  black. 

"The  Lord  had  sent  the  lion,  but  the  devil 
was  carrying  away  the  diamond.  Vassell  must 
be  in  at  the  ending,  as  he  had  planned.  So  out 
with  his  rifle  he  sprang,  seized  a  brand,  and 
ran,  whirling  it  into  flame,  on  the  dragged 
body's  spoor. 

"  'Come  back !  Oh,  baas,  come  back !  The 
veldt  is  full  of  lions !'  So  the  Kaffirs  shrieked. 
But  twelve  thousand  pounds  is  not  forsaken  by 
a  Boer  hunter  for  fear  of  lions.  On  Vassell 
ran.  He  would  beat  off  the  lion  with  the  torch. 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  279 

Happy  would  be  his  rich  life  without  Matakit ! 
Plainly  the  Lord  would  be  merciful  to  him  be- 
cause he  had  been  merciful  as  commanded  by 
the  text. 

"But  from  the  wagons  came  now  a  bawl: 
'Baas !  Baas !  I  am  here,  I,  Matakit !  I  was 
in  a  wagon.'  He  had  sneaked  away  from  the 
fire.  'It  is  but  Impugan  that  the  lion  has 
taken.' 

"Back  went  Vassell  in  rage.  Now  he  would 
finish  the  Kaffir!  For  what  would  his  other 
Kaffirs,  the  Christians  he  had  bred,  his  best 
hunters,  too — what  would  they  think  but  that 
he  valued  the  accursed  pagan  above  brave  old 
Impugan  and  all  the  rest  of  them?  Yet  he  only 
beat  put  his  torch  on  Matakit's  head  before 
the  diseased  conscience  stayed  his  hand  once 
more." 

Again  the  white-beard  burgher  paused.  The 
picketed  horses  were  now  still.  The  moon  was 
gone,  and  the  spruit  chattered  in  starlit  dark- 
ness. There  was  no  sound  of  the  vedettes,  but 
that  was  not  strange.  Yet  uneasiness  came 
over  me.  My  comrades  shared  it.  We  all 
stared  'at  the  gigantic  prisoner  with  some  suspi- 
cion that  I  could  not  define.  He  seemed  un- 
canny. From  an  old  man,  and  especially  an  old 


280  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

Boer,  sneers  seemed  unnatural.  Some  diabol- 
ical amusement  seemed  to  animate  him.  As  he 
jeered  his  cousin  he  seemed  to  jeer  us.  At  first 
I  had  liked  his  genial  tone.  Now  he  gave  me  a 
sense  of  repulsion.  For  this  I  was  trying  to 
account  when  the  old  burgher  stooped  and 
freshened  the  fire  with  mealie  cobs.  The  sparks 
flew  high.  In  that  momentary  light  he  re- 
sumed his  story : 

"My  cousin  Vassell  was  of  my  Swartzdorp 
commando  when  this  war  began,  but  he  is  now 
a  prisoner  in  St.  Helena.  Before  he  left  home 
with  his  boys  he  instructed  his  wife  about  Mata- 
kit. 

"  'Be  as  good  to  him  as  you  can,'  Vassell  or- 
dered. 'But  if  he  should  come  to  his  end  before 
I  return,  then  be  careful  to  bury  him  deeper 
than  jackals  or  hyenas  dig.  Bury  him  care- 
fully by' — no  matter  where;  Vassell  showed 
Tante  Anna  precisely  the  place. 

"The  woman  wept  and  fell  on  her  husband's 
neck,  and  cried:  'Farewell,  and  fight  well;  and 
God  bring  you  and  the  boys  back  to  me,  Vas- 
sell, my  old  heart.  You  need  have  no  fear  but 
I  will  carefully  bury  the  Kaffir !' 

"Gentlemen!"  We  all  sprang  up  at  the 
change  in  the  old  voice.  ft Gentlemen — you  are 


THE   SWARTZ   DIAMOND  281 

my  prisoners."  The  burgher  rose  up,  very  hard 
of  face. 

Deschamps  drew  his  pistol.  I  thrust  mine 
almost  into  the  burgher's  face.  But  he  spoke 
firmly : 

"What!  Shoot  your  prisoner,  with  his  com- 
mando sin-rounding  you.  Fifty  Mausers  are 
levelled  on  you.  Pooh!  No!  It  would  be 
the  end  of  you  all.  Lieutenant,  your  horses 
are  seized.  Your  vedettes  are  prisoners. 
They  were  knocked  off  their  saddles  long  ago, 
when  you  heard  nothing  but  the  horses  stamp- 
ing. There  was  a  Boer  among  them  then.  He 
provoked  that  stamping.  It  was  the  signal  to 
strike  down  your  vedettes.  Fifty  burghers  are 
listening  to  my  voice  now.  Here,  men !"  And 
at  the  word  the  Boer  surprise  came  on.  "Oom 
Emanuel!  Oh,  Oom  Emanuel!"  was  the  cry. 

"I  truly  grieve  for  you,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
old  burgher  ten  minutes  later.  "You  were  such 
good  listeners — you  had  ears  for  nothing  but 
my  story.  And  because  of  that  I  leave  you 
food  for  a  whole  day.  It  will  be  sufficient,  if 
you  march  well  on  foot,  to  take  you  to  my  old 
friend  General  Pole.  I  beg  you  to  give  him 
my  compliments.  But  he  will  not  be  in  good 
humour  to-morrow.  Every  one  of  his  patrols 


282  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

within  twenty  miles  has  been  captured  to-night, 
unless  something  has  gone  wrong  with  De  Wet, 
which  is  unlikely.  Do  not  be  cast  down,  lieu- 
tenant. You  were  not  to  blame.  Your  ears 
were  not  trained  to  the  veldt.  Good-bye.  I 
invite  you  to  visit  me,  lieutenant,  after  this  war 
ends,  at  my  Swartzdorp  farm.  Then  I  will  tell 
you  the  rest  of  the  diamond  story." 

"But  that  is  not  fair,  sir,"  said  Deschamps, 
whimsically.  "I  have  interest  in  de  story,  and 
I  want  to  know  how  she  end." 

"It  has  no  end  yet."  The  old  burgher  smiled 
broadly.  "I  was  on  my  way  to  end  it  when 
you  stopped  me.  I  hoped  to  get  through  more 
easily  without  my  burghers'  aid,  but  I  told 
them  to  follow  if  they  saw  me  stopped.  You 
missed  us  in  searching  the  spruit  this  morning. 

"I  have  really  private  business  at  Swartz- 
dorp. Word  was  brought  to  me  three  days  ago 
that  Tante  Anna  dutifully  buried  Matakit 
months  ago.  Vassell  was  the  Kaffir's  life;  I 
will  be  his  resurrection.  A  great  diamond  of 
the  first  water  is  very  salable,  and  the  treasury 
of  the  republic  is  running  low." 

"But  it  may  not  be  a  diamond  of  the  first 
water,"  said  I. 

"It  must  be,"  said  the  patriarch.  "Anything 
less  would  be  too  shabby  a  mercy  to  Vassell." 


BOSS  OF  THE  WORLD 

ABOUT  one-tenth  of  the  people  in  Boston  are 
British  Canadians,  mostly  from  the  Maritime 
Provinces,  an  acquisitive  prudent  folk  who  see 
naught  to  be  gained  by  correcting  casual  ac- 
quaintances who  mistake  them  for  down-east 
Yankees.  Often,  indeed,  they  are  descendants 
of  Hezekiahs  'and  Priscillas  who,  having  been 
Royalists  during  the  War  of  Independence, 
found  subsequent  emigration  to  a  British 
country  incumbent  on  their  Puritan  con- 
sciences. These  Americans,  returned  to  the 
ancestral  New  England  after  four  or  five  gen- 
erations of  absence,  commonly  find  Boston 
ways  surprisingly  congenial,  though  they  con- 
tinue to  cherish  pride  in  British  origin,  and  a 
decent  warmth  of  regard  for  fellow  natives  of 
the  Maritime  Provinces.  Hence  a  known  Can- 
adian is  frequently  addressed  by  an  unsus- 
pected one  with,  "I  am  from  Canada,  too." 
Having  learned  this  from  ten  years'  experience, 
I  was  little  surprised  when  old  Adam  Bemis, 
meeting  me  on  the  corner  of  Tremont  and 
Boylston  Streets,  in  May,  1915,  stopped  and 

283 


284  OLD   MAN   SAVABIN    STORIES 

stealthily  whispered,  "I  am  from  Yarmouth, 
Nova  Scotia." 

"Really!  I  have  always  taken  you  for  one  of 
the  prevalent  minority,  a  man  from  the  State  of 
Maine." 

"Most  folks  do.  It  doesn't  vex  me  any 
more.  But  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  any  time 
the  last  ten  years." 

"Then,  why  didn't  you?" 

"It's  not  my  way  to  hurry.  You  will  under- 
stand that  well  when  I  explain.  I'm  needing 
friendly  advice." 

He  had  ever  worn  the  air  of  preoccupation 
during  our  twelve  years'  acquaintance,  but  that 
seemed  proper  to  an  inventor  burdened  with  the 
task  of  devising  and  selecting  novelties  for  the 
Annual  Announcement  by  which  Miss  Min- 
nely's  Prize  Package  Department  furthers  the 
popularity  of  her  famous  Family  Blessing. 
The  happy  possessor  of  five  new  subscription 
certificates,  on  remitting  them  to  Adam's  De- 
partment, receives  by  mail,  prepaid,  Number 
1  Prize  Package.  Number  2  falls  to  the  col- 
lector of  ten  such  certificates;  and  so  on,  in 
gradations  of  Miss  Minnely's  shrewd  benefi- 
cence. The  magnifico  of  one  thousand  certifi- 
cates obtains  choice  between  a  gasoline  auto- 


BOSS   OF   THE   WORLD  285 

buggy  and  a  New  England  farm.  To  be  ever 
adding  to  or  choosing  from  the  world's  chang- 
ing assortment  of  moral  mechanical  toys,  cellu- 
loid table  ornaments,  reversible  albums, 
watches  warranted  gold  filled,  books  combining 
thrill  with  edification,  and  more  or  less  similar 
"premiums"  to  no  calculable  end,  might  well 
account  for  Old  Adam's  aspect,  at  once  solemn 
and  unsettled. 

"What  is  your  trouble?"  I  enquired. 
"The  Odistor.    My  greatest  discovery!"  he 
whispered. 

"Indeed!    For  your  Department?" 
"We  will  see  about  that.     It  is  something 
mighty  wonderful — I  don't  know  but  I  should 
say  almighty." 

"Goodness!  What  is  its  nature?" 
"I  won't  say — not  here.  You  couldn't  believe 
me  without  seeing  it  work — I  wouldn't  have 
believed  it  myself  on  anybody's  word.  I  will 
bring  it  on  to  your  lodgings — that's  a  good 
place  for  the  exhibition.  No — I  won't  even  try 
to  explain  here — we  might  be  overheard."  He 
glanced  up  and  down  Tremont  Street,  then 
across — "Sh — there  she  is  herself!"  He 
dodged  into  a  drug  store  opposite  the  Tou- 
raine. 


286  OLD    MAN    SAVABIN    STORIES 

Miss  Mehitable  Minnely,  sole  proprietor  of 
The  Family  Blessing,  was  moving  imposingly 
from  the  Boylston  Street  front  of  the  hotel 
toward  her  auto-brougham.  At  the  top  step 
she  halted  and  turned  her  cordial,  broad,  dom- 
inant countenance  in  both  directions  as  if  to 
beam  on  streets  crowded  with  potential  prize- 
package  takers.  She  then  spoke  the  permit- 
ting word  to  two  uniformed  deferential  atten- 
dants, who  proceeded  to  stay  her  carefully  by 
the  elbows,  in  her  descent  of  the  stone  steps. 
Foot  passengers  massed  quickly  on  both  sides 
of  her  course,  watching  her  large,  slow  progress 
respectfully.  When  the  porters  had  conveyed 
her  across  the  pavement,  and  with  deferential, 
persistent  boosting  made  of  her  an  ample  la- 
ding for  the  "auto,"  the  chauffeur  touched  his 
wide-peaked  cap,  and  slowly  rolled  her  away 
towards  Brimstone  Corner  en  route  to  the 
Blessing  Building.  Adam  came  out  of  the 
drug  store  looking  relieved. 

"She  doesn't  like  to  see  any  of  us  on  the 
street,  office  hours,"  he  explained  with  lips 
close  to  my  ear.  "Not  that  I  ought  to  care 
one  mite."  He  smiled  somewhat  defiantly  and 
added,  "To  see  me  dodging  the  old  lady's  eye 
you'd  never  guess  I'm  her  boss.  But  I  am." 


BOSS   OF   THE    WORLD  287 

He  eyed  my  wonder  exultantly  and  repeated, 
"It's  so.  She  doesnt  know  it.  Nobody  knows, 
except  me.  But  I  am  her  boss.  Just  whenever 
I  please." 

On  my  continued  aspect  of  perturbation  he 
remarked,  coolly: — "Naturally  you  think  my 
head  is  on  wrong.  But  you  will  know  better 
this  evening.  I'm  the  World's  boss  whenever 
I  choose  to  take  the  responsibility.  If  I  don't 
choose,  she  goes  on  being  my  boss,  and,  of 
course,  I'll  want  to  hold  down  my  job.  Well, 
good-day  for  the  present.  Or,  say — I  forgot — 
will  it  suit  you  if  I  come  about  half -past-five  ? 
I  can't  get  there  much  earlier.  She's  not  too 
well  pleased  if  any  of  us  leave  before  Park 
Street  clock  strikes  five." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Bemis — half  past.  I  shall 
expect  you." 

"Expect  a  surprise,  too." 

He  walked  circumspectly  across  Boylston 
Street  through  the  contrary  processions  of 
vehicles,  to  the  edging  pavement  of  the  Com- 
mon, on  his  way  toward  the  new  Old  State 
House,  and  Miss  Minnely's  no  less  immense 
Family  Blessing  Building. 

It  was  precisely  twenty-six  minutes  past  five 
when  Adam  entered  my  private  office  in  the 


288  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

rear  room  of  the  ground  floor  of  a  sky-scraper 
which  overlooks  that  reach  of  Charles  River 
lying  between  the  Union  Boat  Club  House  and 
the  long,  puritanic,  impressive  simplicity  of 
Harvard  Bridge.  He  did  not  greet  me,  being 
preoccupied  with  the  brown  paper-covered 
package  under  his  left  arm.  With  a  certain 
eagerness  in  his  manner,  he  placed  this  not 
heavy  burden  on  the  floor,  so  that  it  was  hidden 
by  the  broad  table-desk  at  which  I  sat.  He 
stooped.  I  could  hear  him  carefully  untie  the 
string  and  open  the  clattering  paper. 

He  then  placed  on  the  green  baize  desk-cover 
a  bulbous  object  of  some  heavy  metal  resem- 
bling burnished  steel.  It  was  not  unlike  a  large 
white  Bermuda  onion  with  a  protuberant  stem 
or  nozzle  one  inch  long,  half-an-inch  in  diam- 
eter, and  covered  by  a  metal  cap.  Obviously, 
the  bulb  was  of  two  equal  parts,  screwed  to- 
gether on  a  plane  at  right  angles  to  the  perpen- 
dicular nozzle.  An  inch  of  the  upper  edge  of 
the  lower  or  basic  part  was  graduated  finely  as 
a  vernier  scale.  The  whole  lower  edge  of  the 
upper  half  was  divided,  apparently  into  three 
hundred  and  sixty  degrees,  as  is  the  horizontal 
circle  of  a  theodolite.  The  parts  were  fitted 
with  a  clamp  and  tangent  screw,  by  which  the 


BOSS   OF   THE   WORLD  289 

vernier  could  be  moved  with  minutest  precision 
along  the  graduated  circle. 

"I  was  four  years  experimenting  before  I 
found  out  how  to  confine  it,"  said  Adam. 

"What  ?   A  high  explosive !" 

"No — nothing  to  be  nervous  about.  But 
what  it  is  I  can't  exactly  say." 

"A  scientific  mystery,  eh?" 

"It  might  be  called  so,  seeing  as  I  don't  my- 
self know  the  real  nature  of  the  force  any  more 
than  electricians  know  what  electricity  is. 
They  understand  how  to  generate  and  employ 
it,  that's  all.  Did  you  ever  see  a  whirlwind 
start?" 

"No." 

"Think  again.    Not  even  a  little  one?" 

"Of  course  I  have  often  seen  little  whirlwinds 
on  the  street  carrying  up  dust  and  scraps  of 
paper,  sometimes  dropping  them  instantly, 
sometimes  whirling  them  away." 

"On  calm  days?" 

"Really  I  can't  remember.  But  I  think  not. 
It  doesn't  stand  to  reason." 

"That's  where  you  are  mistaken.  It  is  in 
the  strongest  kind  of  sunshine  on  dead  calm 
days  that  those  little  whirlwinds  do  start.  What 
do  you  suppose  starts  them?" 


290  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

"I  never  gave  it  a  thought." 

"Few  do.  I've  given  it  years  of  close  think- 
ing. You  have  read  of  ships  on  tropic  seas  in 
dead  calm  having  top-sails  torn  to  rags  by 
whirlwinds  starting  'way  up  there,  deck  and 
sea  quiet  as  this  room?" 

"I've  read  of  that.  But  I  don't  believe  all  the 
wonderful  items  I  read  in  the  papers." 

"There  are  more  wonders  than  the  papers 
print.  I  saw  that  happen  twice  in  the  Indian 
Ocean,  when  I  was  a  young  man.  I  have  been 
studying  more  or  less  on  it  ever  since.  Now  I 
will  show  you  the  remainder  of  my  Odistor.  I 
call  it  that  because  folks  when  I  was  young  used 
to  talk  of  a  mysterious  Odic  force." 

To  the  desk  he  lifted  a  black  leather  grip- 
sack, as  narrow,  as  low,  and  about  twice  as  long 
as  one  of  those  in  which  surgeons  carry  their  im- 
plements. From  this  he  extracted  a  simple- 
seeming  apparatus  which  I  still  suppose  to  have 
been  of  the  nature  of  an  electric  machine.  Ex- 
ternally it  resembled  a  rectangular  umbrella 
box  of  metal  similar  to  that  of  the  bulb.  It  was 
about  four  feet  in  length  and  four  inches  in 
height  and  in  breadth.  That  end  which  he 
placed  nearest  the  window  was  grooved  to  re- 
ceive one-half  the  bulb  accurately.  Clamped 


BOSS   OF   THE    WORLD  291 

longitudinally  to  the  top  of  the  box  was  a 
copper  tube  half-an-inch  in  exterior  diameter, 
and  closed,  except  for  a  pinhole  sight,  at  the  end 
farthest  from  the  window.  The  other,  or  open 
end,  was  divided  evenly  by  a  perpendicular  fila- 
ment apparently  of  platinum. 

Adam  placed  this  sighted  box  on  the  green 
baize,  its  longer  axis  pointing  across  the  Charles 
River  to  Cambridge,  through  the  window.  He 
carefully  propped  up  the  wire-net  sash.  Stoop- 
ing at  the  desk  he  looked  through  the  pin-hole 
sight  and  shifted  the  box  to  his  satisfaction. 

"Squint  along  the  line  of  sight,"  he  said,  giv- 
ing place  to  me.  I  stooped  and  complied. 

"You  see  Memorial  Hall  tower  right  in  the 
line?" 

"Precisely." 

"But  what  is  nearest  on  the  Cambridge 
shore?" 

"The  stone  revetment  wall." 

"I  mean  next  beyond  that." 

"The  long  shed  with  the  big  sign  'Builders' 
in  black  letters." 

"All  right.  Sit  here  and  watch  that  shed. 
No  matter  if  it  blows  away.  They  were  going 
to  tear  it  down  anyway."  He  placed  my  chair 
directly  behind  the  sighted  tube. 


292  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

With  an  access  of  eagerness  in  his  counte- 
nance, and  something  of  tremor  apparent  in  his 
clutching  fingers,  he  lifted  the  bulb,  unscrewed 
its  metal  cap  and  worked  the  tangent  screw 
while  watching  the  vernier  intently.  He  was 
evidently  screwing  the  basal  half  closer  to  the 
nozzle-bearing  upper  portion. 

From  a  minute  orifice  in  the  nozzle  or  stem 
something  exuded  that  appeared  first  as  a  tiny, 
shimmering,  sunbright,  revolving  globule.  At 
that  instant  he  placed  the  bulb  on  its  base  in  its 
niche  or  groove  at  the  outer  or  window  end  of 
the  sighted  box.  Thus  the  strange  revolving 
globule  was  rising  directly  in  the  line  of  sight. 

"Watch  that  shed,"  Adam  ordered  hoarsely. 

I  could  not  wholly  take  my  eyes  off  the  sin- 
gular sphere,  which  resembled  nothing  that  I 
have  elsewhere  seen  so  much  as  a  focus  of  sun 
rays  from  a  burning  glass.  But  this  intensely 
bright  spot  or  mass — for  it  appeared  to  have 
substance  even  as  the  incandescent  carbon  of 
an  Edison  lamp  seems  to  possess  substance 
exterior  to  the  carbon — rose  expanding  in  an 
increasing  spiral  within  an  iridescent  translu- 
cent film  that  clung  by  a  tough  stem  to  the 
orifice  of  the  nozzle,  somewhat  as  a  soap-bubble 
clings  to  the  pipe  whence  it  is  blown.  Yet  this 


BOSS  OF  THE   WORLD  293 

brilliant,  this  enlarging,  this  magic  globule  was 
plainly  whirling  on  its  perpendicular  axis  as  a 
waterspout  does,  and  that  with  speed  terrific. 
The  mere  friction  of  its  enclosing  film  on  the 
air  stirred  such  wind  in  the  room  as  might  come 
from  an  eighteen-inch  electric  fan.  In  shape  the 
infernal  thing  rapidly  became  an  inverted  cone 
with  spiral  convolutions.  It  hummed  like  a  dis- 
tant, idly-running  circular  saw,  a  great  top,  or 
the  far-off,  mysterious  forewarning  of  a  ty- 
phoon. 

"Now!"  Adam  touched  a  button  on  the  top 
of  the  metal  box. 

The  gleaming,  whirling,  humming,  prismatic 
spiral  was  then  about  eighteen  inches  high.  It 
vanished  without  sound  or  spark,  as  if  the  film 
had  been  totally  destroyed  'and  the  contained 
incandescence  quenched  on  liberation.  For  one 
instant  I  experienced  a  sense  of  suffocation,  as 
if  all  the  air  had  been  drawn  out  of  the  room. 
The  inner  shutters  clashed,  the  holland  sun- 
shade clattered,  the  door  behind  me  snicked 
open,  air  from  the  corridor  rushed  in. 

"See  the  river!"  Adam  was  exultant,  but 
not  too  excited  to  replace  the  metal  cap  on  the 
nozzle. 

Certainly  the  Charles  River  was  traversed  by 


294  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

a  gust  that  raised  white  caps  instantly.  A 
bulk-headed  sailing-dory,  owned  by  a  Union 
Boat  Clubman  whom  I  knew,  lay  over  so  far 
that  her  sail  was  submerged,  and  her  centre- 
board came  completely  out  of  water.  Only  the 
head  and  clutching  forearms  of  the  two  men 
aboard  her  could  be  seen.  Afterward  they  told 
me  they  had  been  quite  surprised  by  the  squall. 
Beyond  the  Cambridge  revetment  wall  a  wide 
cloud  of  dust  sprang  up,  hiding  the  "Builders" 
shed. 

When  this  structure  reappeared  Adam 
gasped,  then  stood  breathless,  his  countenance 
expressive  of  surprise. 

He  looked  down  at  the  Odistor,  pondering, 
left  hand  fingers  pressing  his  throbbing  temple. 
Lifting  the  bulb  he  inspected  the  vernier,  laid 
it  down  again,  put  on  his  spectacles  and  once 
more  peered  intently  at  the  graduated  scale. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "I  was  the  least  thing  too 
much  afraid  of  doing  damage  in  Cambridge 
back  of  the  shed.  But  you  saw  the  wind?" 

"Certainly  I  saw  wind." 

"You  know  how  it  started?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.  It  was  very 
strange.  What  is  the  stuff?" 

"Tell  me  what  starts  the  whirlwind  or  the 


BOSS   OF  THE   WORLD  295 

cyclone,  and  I  can  tell  you  that.  All  I'm  sure 
of  is  that  I  can  originate  the  force,  control  it, 
and  release  it  in  any  strength  I  choose.  Do 
you  remember  the  chap  called  JEolus  we  used 
to  read  about  in  the  Latin  book  at  school,  he 
that  bagged  up  the  winds  long  ago?  I  guess 
there  was  truth  at  the  back  of  that  fable.  He 
found  out  the  secret  before  me,  and  he  used  it 
to  some  extent.  It  died  with  him,  and  they 
made  a  god  out  of  his  memory — they  had  some 
right  to  be  grateful  that  he  spared  them.  It 
must  go  to  the  grave  with  me — so  far  as  I've 
reasoned  on  the  situation.  But  that's  all  right. 
What's  worrying  me  is  the  question — Shall  I 
make  any  use  of  it?" 

"I  can  see  no  use  for  it." 

"What !  Think  again.  It  is  the  Irresistible 
Force.  There  is  no  withstanding  it.  I  can 
start  a  stronger  hurricane  than  ever  yet  blew. 
You  remember  what  happened  to  that  Ha- 
waiian Island  in  the  tornado  last  year?  That 
was  a  trifle  to  what  I  can  do.  It  is  only  a 
matter  of  confining  a  larger  quantity  in  a 
stronger  receiver  and  giving  it  a  swifter  send 
off  with  a  more  powerful  battery.  I  can  widen 
the  track  and  lengthen  the  course  to  any  ex- 
tent" 


296  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

"Suppose  you  can.  Still  it  is  only  a  de- 
stroyer. What's  the  good  of  it?" 

"What's  the  good  of  a  Krupp  gun.  Or  a 
shell.  Or  a  bullet?" 

"They  are  saleable." 

He  looked  keenly  at  me  for  some  seconds. 
"Do  you  see  that  far,  or  do  you  only  not  see 
how  it  could  be  used  as  a  weapon?  That's  it, 
eh!  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  There's  England 
spending  more'n  ten  million  dollars  a  day  in 
the  war.  Suppose  I  go  to  Lord  Kitchener. 
He's  a  practical,  quick  man — in  half  an  hour 
he  sees  what  I  can  do.  'What  will  you  give,' 
I  ask  him,  'to  have  the  Crown  Prince  'and  the 
rest  of  them  Prussians  blown  clear  away?' 
'What  is  your  price?'  he  inquires.  'Ten  mil- 
lion pounds  would  be  cheap,'  I  reply.  'Take 
five,'  he  says,  'we  are  not  made  of  money.' 
'Well,  seeing  it's  you,'  I  tell  him." 

"It  is  a  considerable  discount,  Adam.  But 
then  you  are  a  British  subject." 

"Yes — kind  of.  But  the  conversation  was 
imaginary.  Discount  or  no  discount,  I  feel  no 
special  call  to  blow  away  whole  armies  of  Ger- 
mans. If  I  could  set  the  Odistor  on  the  Kaiser, 
and  the  Crown  Prince,  and  a  dozen  or  so  more 
of  the  Prussian  gang,  I'd  do  it,  of  course.  But 


BOSS  OF  THE   WORLD  297 

how  could  I  find  just  where  they  were?  Blow- 
ing away  whole  armies  of  men  don't  seem  right 
to  me." 

"But  you  needn't  do  that  yourself.  Sell  your 
secret  outright  to  the  British  Government." 

Adam  stared  as  one  truly  astonished. 

"Now  what  you  think  you're  talking  about?" 
he  remonstrated.  "Can't  you  see  farther  than 
that?  Suppose  I  sell  the  secret  to  Kitchener. 
Suppose  he  clears  out  all  the  Germans  with  it. 
What  next?  Why,  Ireland!  Kitchener  is  a 
Jingo  Imperialist,  which  I  never  was  and  never 
will  be.  I've  heard  of  Jingoes  saying  time  and 
again  that  England's  interests  would  be  suited 
if  Ireland  was  ten  feet  under  water.  Or  sup- 
pose he  only  blows  the  Irish  out  of  Connaught, 
just  to  show  the  others  they'd  better  cut  out  the 
Sinn  Finn.  What  then?  First  place,  I  like 
the  Irish.  My  wife's  Irish.  Next,  consider  all 
the  world.  Suppose  England  has  got  the  irre- 
sistible weapon.  There's  no  opposing  it.  Sup- 
pose France  was  to  try,  some  time  after  this 
war  is  over.  Away  go  her  cities,  farms,  vine- 
yards, people,  higher  than  Gilroy's  kite.  What 
next  ?  All  the  rest  of  the  world  then  know  they 
must  do  what  the  English  say — Germans,  Ital- 
ians, Russians,  Yankees,  Canadians.  Now  I'm 


298  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

a  cosmopolitan,  I  am.  All  kind  of  folk  look 
good  to  me." 

"But  England  ruling  the  world  means  uni- 
versal peace,"  I  said  enthusiastically.  "Free 
trade,  equal  rights,  all  the  grand  altruistic 
English  ideals  established  forever  and  ever! 
Adam,  let  England  have  it!  You'll  be  re- 
membered as  the  greatest  benefactor  of  hu- 
manity. A  Bemis  statue  in  Trafalgar  Square, 
London !  Sure !  Think  of  that  glory,  Adam." 

"For  putting  the  English  on  top,"  he  replied 
dryly.  "I  can't  seem  to  want  to.  Not  but 
what  the  English  are  all  right.  But  my  kind  of 
Maritime  Province  Canadians  are  considerably 
more  American  than  English,  though  they 
never  rightly  know  it  till  they've  lived  here  and 
in  the  old  country.  We're  at  home  with 
Yankee  ways  and  Yankee  notions.  In  Eng- 
land we're  only  colonials.  Not  but  what  the 
war  may  change  that  a  bit." 

"Take  your  secret  to  Washington  then. 
President  Wilson  will  see  that  you  get  all  that 
you  can  reasonably  ask  for  it." 

"Sure — but  while  the  pro-German  microbe 
is  active  in  Washington,  I  will  not  offer  the 
thing  there.  Yet  my  first  notion  was  to  let  the 
United  States  have  it — on  conditions." 


BOSS   OF  THE   WORLD  299 

"What  conditions?" 

"Well,  I'd  bargain  they  must  leave  Canada 
alone.  Woodrow  would  boss  the  rest  of  the 
world,  I  was  thinking,  just  the  way  I'll  do  it 
myself  if  ever  I  do  make  up  my  mind.  No 
bossing — everybody  free  and  equal  and  indus- 
trious— no  aristocracy,  except  just  enough  to 
laugh  at — no  domineering.  But  I  ain't  so 
pleased  with  Woodrow  as  I  was  when  he 
started  presidenting.  He  aint  set  the  Filipinos 
free  yet.  And  he  knowing  how  bad  they  was 
treated  by  this  Republic.  Why,  the  worst  grab 
ever  England  made  wasn't  a  circumstance  to 
Yankees  allying  with  Aguinaldo,  and  then 
seizing  his  country." 

"To  what  government  will  you  sell?"  I  in- 
quired patiently. 

"Well,  now,  if  I  was  going  to  sell  to  any  gov- 
ernment it  would  be  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier's. 
But  he's  got  no  government,  now.  Onta'rio 
folks  beat  him  last  election,  for  being  too  rea- 
sonable. If  ever  there  was  the  makings  of  a 
good  benevolent  despot,  Laurier's  the  man. 
I  used  to  be  saying  to  myself  while  I  was  per- 
fecting the  Odistor,  says  I  inwardly,  'I'll  give  it 
to  Laurier.5  Of  course,  I  was  calculating  he'd 
use  it  first  thing  to  annex  the  United  States 


300  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

to  Canada.  That  would  be  good  for  both 
countries — if  Laurier  was  on  top.  He'd  give 
this  Republic  Responsible  Government,  stop 
letting  it  be  run  by  hole-and-corner  committees 
and  trusts  and  billionaires,  and,  first  of  all,  he'd 
establish  Free  Trade  all  over  the  continent. 
That  would  be  good  for  Nova  Scotia  apple- 
growers,  and,  mind  you,  I'd  like  to  do  some- 
thing for  my  native  Province  before  I  die. 
Statue  in  Trafalgar  Square,  says  you.  Think 
of  a  statue  in  Halifax — erected  to  me! 
'ADAM  BEMIS,  BENEFACTOR  OF 
NOVA  SCOTIA!'  And  a  big  apple-tree 
kind  of  surrounding  my  figure  with  blessings ! 
Sounds  kind  of  good,  eh.  Why  don't  I  give  it 
to  Laurier?  Well  he's  getting  old.  He  aint 
any  too  strong  in  health,  either.  He  mightn't 
live  long  enough  to  get  things  running  right. 
And  he'd  be  sure  to  tell  his  colleagues  how  the 
Odistor  is  worked — he's  such  a  strong  party 
man.  That's  the  only  fault  he's  got.  Well, 
now,  think  what  happens  after  he  drops  out. 
Why,  some  ordinary  cuss  of  his  Party  takes 
over  the  Bossdom  of  the  world.  Now,  all  ordi- 
nary Canadian  politicians  are  hungry  to  be 
knighted,  or  baroneted.  Laurier' s  successor, 
likely  enough,  would  give  away  the  Odistor  to 


BOSS   OF  THE   WORLD  301 

England,  in  return  for  a  handle  to  his  name. 
And  once  England  got  the  Odistor — why,  you 
know  what  I  told  you  before." 

"Well,  what  Government  will  you  sell 
to?" 

"To  none.  Germany's  out  of  the  question, 
of  course.  France,  Russia,  Italy,  Japan — 
they're  all  unfitter  than  England,  Canada  or 
the  States.  Once  I  planned  to  raise  up  the 
people  that  are  down — the  Poles,  Irish,  Ar- 
menians, Filipinos,  and  so  on.  Then  I  got  to 
fancying  the  Irish  with  power  to  blow  every- 
thing above  rock  in  England  out  to  sea.  Would 
they  be  satisfied  with  moving  the  Imperial 
Parliament  to  College  Green,  giving  England 
a  Viceroy  and  local  councils,  putting  a  Catholic 
King  in  George's  shoes  and  fixing  the  corona- 
tion oath  to  abjuring  Protestant  errors?  I 
can't  seem  to  think  they'd  be  so  mild.  WTiat 
would  the  Poles  do  to  the  Prussians,  Austrians, 
and  Russians ;  or  the  Armenians  to  the  Turks, 
if  I  gave  them  the  Odistor?  No — I  won't  take 
such  risks.  If  I  gave  the  thing  to  one  Nation 
the  only  fair  deal  would  be  to  give  it  to  all,  big 
and  little  alike,  making  the  smallest  as  powerful 
as  the  biggest,  everyone  with  power  to  blow  all 
the  others  off  the  footstool.  What  then? 


302  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

Would  mutual  fear  make  them  live  peaceably  ? 
I'm  feared  not.  Probably  every  one  would  be 
so  afraid  of  every  other  that  each  would  be  for 
getting  its  Odistors  to  work  first.  There'd  be 
cyclones  jamming  into  cyclones  all  over  out- 
doors, a  teetotal  destruction  of  crops,  and 
everything  and  everybody  blown  clean  away  at 
once.  Wonder  where  they'd  light  ?" 

His  query,  did  not  divert  me  from  the  main 
matter.  "If  you  won't  sell,  how  can  you  get 
any  money  out  of  it?"  I  asked. 

"No  difficulty  getting  money  out  of  it.  Here 
I  am  able  to  blow  everything  away — say  Berlin 
and  thereabouts  for  a  starter,  just  to  show  how 
the  thing  works.  Then  all  hands  would  know  I 
could  blow  away  all  Europe — except  maybe 
the  Alps.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  strong 
the  Odistor  could  blow.  Wouldn't  all  the  Gov- 
ernments unite  to  p'ay  me  not  to  do  it.  See? 
All  the  money  John  Rockefeller  ever  handled 
wouldn't  pay  five  minutes'  interest  on  what  I 
ought  to  get  for  just  not  doing  it.  No  harm  in 
not  hurting  anybody — see?  And  me  working 
for  Miss  Minnely  for  forty-five  dollars  a 
week!" 

"Resign,  Adam,"  I  said  earnestly,  for  the 
financial  prospect  was  dazzling.  "Take  me  in 


BOSS   OF  THE   WORLD  303 

as  junior  partner.  Let  us  get  at  this  thing  to- 
gether." 

"What?  Blackmailing  the  nations!  And 
you  a  professional  Liberal  like  myself!  No! 
It  wouldn't  be  straight.  I  can't  have  a  partner 
— you'll  see  that  before  I  get  through.  But 
now  I  suppose  that  you  will  admit  that  I  could 
get  any  amount  of  money  out  of  the  thing?" 

"You  have  thought  it  all  out  wonderfully, 
Adam." 

"Wish  I  could  stop  thinking  about  it.  I'm 
only  taking  you  gradually  over  the  field — not 
telling  my  conclusions  yet — but  only  some  of 
my  thoughts  by  the  way.  In  fact  it's  years 
since  I  gave  up  the  notion  of  opening  the  secret 
to  any  nation,  or  to  all  nations.  For  one  thing 
I  couldn't  get  into  any  nation's  possession  if  I 
wanted  to.  Suppose,  for  instance,  I  offered  it 
to  the  Washington  Administration.  Naturally 
the  President  orders  experts  to  report  on  it — 
say  six  army  engineers.  I  show  them  how. 
What  happens  ?  Why,  those  six  men  are  bosses 
of  the  Administration,  the  nation  and  all  the 
world.  They  can't  but  see  that  right  away  if 
they've  got  any  gumption.  Will  they  abstain 
from  using  the  power?  Scarcely.  Will  they 
stick  together  and  boss?  They  won't,  because 


304  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

they  can't.  It  is  not  in  human  nature.  Com- 
mon sense,  common  logic,  would  compel  each 
one  to  try  to  get  his  private  Odistor  going  first, 
for  fear  each  of  the  others  might  be  for  blowing 
him  and  the  other  four  away  in  order  to  boss 
alone.  Fact  is,  the  moment  I  showed  the  pro- 
cess to  any  other  man — and  this  is  why  I  can't 
take  you  in  as  partner — I'd  have  to  blow  him 
straight  'away  out  beyond  Cape  Cod,  for  fear 
he  would  send  me  flying  soon  as  he  saw  uni- 
versal Bossdom  in  his  hands." 

"That  seems  inevitable,"  I  admitted. 

"Certainly.  I  can't  risk  the  human  race 
under  any  Boss  except  myself — or  somebody 
that  I  am  sure  means  'as  well  as  I  do." 

"Our  political  principles  are  in  many  re- 
spects the  same,"  I  suggested,  hopefully. 

"Will  you — will  any  man  except  me — would 
even  Laurier  stay  Liberal  if  he  had  absolute 
power?  What  would  you  do  with  the  Odistor 
anyway?" 

"Get  a  fortune  out  of  it." 

"How?" 

"Well,  we  might  try  this  scheme — detain 
ocean  liners  in  port  until  the  Companies  agreed 
to  pay  what  the  traffic  will  bear." 

"Gosh — you  think  I've  got  the  conscience  of 


BOSS   OF   THE    WORLD  305 

a  Railway  Corporation?  No,  sir!  But  what 
use  in  prolonging  this  part  of  our  talk?  I  have 
thought  of  a  thousand  ways  of  using  the  thing 
on  a  large  scale,  but  they  are  all  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, for  one  good  and  sufficient  reason — folks 
would  lock  me  up  or  kill  me  if  I  once  convinced 
'em  of  the  power  I  possess.  I  couldn't  blame 
them,  they  must  do  it  to  feel  safe  themselves. 
The  only  sure  way  for  me  to  get  big  money  out 
of  it  safely  would  be  by  retiring  to  a  lonely  sea 
island  and  advertising  what  I  intended  to  do  on 
a  specified  day — blow  away  some  forest  on  the 
mainland,  say,  or  send  a  blast  straight  overland 
to  the  Rockies  and  clear  them  of  snow  in  a 
path  fifty  miles  wide.  Of  course,  folks  would 
laugh  at  the  advertisement — to  say  nothing  of 
the  expense  of  inserting  it — and  to  convince 
them  I'd  have  to  do  it.  After  that  I  might  call 
on  the  civilised  governments  to  send  me  all  the 
gold,  diamonds,  and  fine  things  I  could  think 
of.  But  what  good  would  fine  things  do  me? 
I  should  be  afraid  to  let  any  ship  land  its  cargo, 
or  any  other  human  being  come  on  the  island. 
I  couldn't  even  have  a  cook,  for  fear  she  might 
be  bribed  to  poison  me  or  bust  the  Odistor — and 
I've  got  no  fancy  to  do  my  own  cooking.  What 
good  to  Boss  the  World  at  that  price?  The 


306  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

Kaiser  himself  wouldn't  pay  it.  Universally 
feared  as  he  is  already  hated — but  not  bound 
to  live  alone.  For  a  while  I  was  thinking  to  se- 
clude myself  that  way  in  self-sacrifice  to  the 
general  good.  I  thought  of  issuing  an  order  to 
all  governments  to  stop  fighting,  stop  govern- 
ing and  just  let  real  freedom  be  established— 
the  brotherhood  of  man,  share  and  share  alike, 
equal  wages  all  round,  same  kind  of  houses  and 
grub  and  clothes,  perfect  democracy !  But  sup- 
pose the  Governments  didn't  obey?  Politicians 
are  smart — they'd  soon  see  I  dursn't  leave  my 
island  to  go  travelling  and  inspecting  what  was 
going  on  all  over.  I  couldn't  receive  deputa- 
tions coming  to  me  for  redress  of  grievances, 
for  fear  they  might  be  coming  to  rid  the  world 
of  its  benevolent  despot.  Shrewd  folks  ashore 
would  soon  catch  on  to  my  fix — me  there  all 
alone,  busy  keeping  ten  or  a  dozen  Odistors 
blowing  gales  off  shore  for  fifty  miles  or  so  to 
keep  people  out  of  any  kind  of  striking  dis- 
tance, and  everlastingly  sending  hurricanes 
upward  to  clear  the  sky  of  Zeppelins  and  aero- 
planes that  might  be  sent  to  drop  nitro-glycer- 
ine  on  me.  Next  thing  some  speculator 
would  be  pretending  to  be  my  sole  agent,  and 
ordering  the  world  to  fetch  him  the  wealth. 


BOSS   OF   THE    WORLD  307 

How  could  I  know,  any  more  than  God  seems 
to,  what  things  were  done  in  my  name?" 

"Employ  Marconi,"  I  suggested;, "have  him 
send  you  aerial  news  of  what's  going  on  every- 
where. Then  you  could  threaten  wrong-doers 
everywhere  with  the  Odistor. 

"Marconi  is  a  good  man,  mebby,  but  think 
of  the  temptation  to  him.  How  could  I  be  sure 
he  was  giving  me  facts.  He  could  stuff  me  with 
good  reports,  and  all  the  time  be  bossing  the 
world  himself,  forcing  the  nations  to  give  up 
to  him  by  the  threat  that  I'd  back  him  and  blow 
the  disobedient  to  Kingdom  Come.  Besides, 
I  don't  know  how  to  operate  Marconi's  instru- 
ments, and,  if  I  did,  all  my  time  would  be  taken 
up  receiving  his  reports.  No,  sir.  There  is  no 
honest,  safe,  comfortable  way  for  me  to  get  rich 
out  of  the  Odistor.  I  have  known  that  for  a 
considerable  time." 

"Then,  why  did  you  wish  to  consult  me?" 

"Well,  first  place,  I  wanted  some  friend  to 
know  what  kind  of  a  self-denying  ordinance 
I'm  living  under.  To  be  comprehended  by  at 
least  one  person  is  a  human  need.  Besides  that, 
I  want  your  opinion  on  a  point  of  conscience. 
Is  the  Odistor  mine?" 

"Yours?    Isn't  it  your  exclusive  discovery?" 


308  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

"But  isn't  it  Miss  Minnely's  property?  I 
experimented  in  her  time." 

"During  office  hours?" 

"Mostly.  And  did  all  the  construction  in 
her  workshop  with  her  materials.  She  sup- 
posed I  was  tinkering  up  a  new  attraction  for 
the  Annual  Announcement.  Isn't  it  hers  by 
rights?  She's  been  paying  me  forty-five  dollars 
a  week  right  along.  When  she  hired  me  she 
told  me  she  expected  exclusive  devotion  to  the 
interests  of  the  Family  Blessing.  And  I 
agreed.  Seems  I'm  bound  in  honour  to  give  it 
up  to  her." 

"For  nothing?" 

"Well,  she's  dead  set  against  raising  wages. 
But  I  was  thinking  she  might  boost  me  up  to 
fifty  a  week." 

"That  seems  little  for  making  her  Boss  of  the 
World." 

"Oh,  Miss  Minnely  wouldn't  go  in  for  that. 
A  man  would.  A  woman  is  too  conservative. 
Miss  Minnely's  one  notion  is  the  Blessing. 
It's  not  money  she  is  after,  but  doing  good. 
She's  sure  the  way  to  improve  the  world  is  to 
get  the  Blessing  regularly  into  every  family.  I 
don't  know  but  she's  right  too.  It's  harmless, 
anyway." 


BOSS   OF   THE    WORLD  309 

I  could  not  but  regard  Adam's  conscience 
as  too  tender.  Yet  it  was  pathetic  to  see  this 
old  man,  potentially  master  of  mankind  (if  he 
were  not  mistaking  the  Odistor's  powers) ,  feel- 
ing morally  so  bound  by  the  ethics  of  the  trusty 
employee.  I  had  perused  thousands  of  editor- 
ials designed  to  imbue  the  proletariat  with  pre- 
cisely Adam's  idea  of  duty  to  Capital.  How 
to  advise  him  was  a  serious  problem. 

"What  would  Miss  Minnely  do  with  it?"  I 
inquired,  to  gain  time. 

"She  would  put  it  on  the  list  of  attractions  in 
the  Prize  Package  Department." 

"Good  heavens!  And  place  absolute  power 
in  the  hands  of  subscribers  to  the  Blessing! 
Anarchy  would  ensue!  They  would  all  set 
about  bossing  the  world." 

"Not  they,"  said  Adam.  "She  would  send 
out  Odistors  gauged  to  only  certain  specified 
strengths.  For  five  subscription  certificates 
the  subscriber  would  get  a  breeze  to  dry  clothes 
or  ventilate  cellars.  Prize  Odistor  number  two 
might  clear  away  snow;  number  three  might 
run  the  family  windmill.  Clubs  of  fifty  new 
subscribers  could  win  a  machine  that  would 
clear  fog  away  from  the  bay  or  the  river,  morn- 
ings. Different  strengths  for  different  pre- 


310  OLD    MAN   SAVABIN    STORIES 

miums.    See?    It  would  prove  a  first-class  at- 
traction for  the  Announcement." 

"Adam,"  I  remonstrated,  for  the  financial 
prospect  was  too  alluring,  "you  are  not  re- 
quired to  give  this  thing  to  Miss  Minnely.  Re- 
sign. Remit  a  million  as  conscience  money  to 
her.  Let  us  go  into  the  manufacture  together. 
You  gauge  the  Odistors.  I  will  run  the  busi- 
ness end  of  the  concern." 

"No!  Miss  Minnely  has  the  first  right.  If 
anybody  gets  it  she  must.  What  bothers  me 
most  is  this — will  she  bounce  me  if  I  tell  her?" 

"Bounce  you?    Why?" 

"Think  me  crazy.  I  tell  you  she  is  conser- 
vative. And  she  is  ready  to  throw  me  out — 
thinks  I'm  a  back  number.  I  can  hardly  blame 
her.  Fact  is,  I  have  given  so  much  time  and 
thought  to  the  Odistor  of  late  years  that  I 
haven't  found  or  invented  half  enough  attrac- 
tions for  the  Announcement.  Last  week  she 
gave  me  an  assistant — a  Pusher.  That  means 
she  is  intending  him  to  supersede  me  about 
two  years  from  now.  Yet  I  could  invent  a  man 
with  twice  his  brains  in  half  the  time.  Some- 
times I  am  tempted  to  put  the  Odistor  on  the 
small  job  of  blowing  him  out  into  Massa- 
chusetts B'ay.  But  he  is  not  to  blame  for  being 


BOSS   OF   THE   WORLD  311 

as  God  made  him.  Then,  again,  I  think  how 
I  could  down  him  by  simply  showing  the  thing 
to  Miss  Minnely.  But  the  cold  fit  comes  again 
—what  if  she  thinks  me  crazy?  I'd  lose  my 
forty-five  dollars  a  week  and  might  be  driven 
to  Bossing  the  World.  It's  hard  for  old 
men  to  get  new  jobs  in  Boston.  They  draw  the 
dead-line  at  fifty.  Just  when  a  man's  got 
some  experience  they  put  a  boy  of  twenty-six 
on  top  of  him.  On  the  other  hand,  suppose 
she  does  consider  it,  and  does  see  the  whole 
meaning  of  it.  First  thing  she  might  do  with 
her  Odistor  would  be  to  put  a  cyclone  whirling 
me."  He  sighed  heavily.  "Fact  is  I've  got 
myself  into  a  kind  of  hole.  What  do  you 
advise?" 

"Bury  the  Odistor.  Forget  it,  Adam. 
Then,  with  your  mind  free,  you  can  invent  new 
things  for  the  Announcement.  I  see  no  other 
escape  from  your  predicament." 

"I  expected  you  to  advise  that  in  the  end," 
said  Adam,  and  began  repacking  his  singular 
mechanism.  "Bury  it  I  will.  But  how  can  I 
forget  it?  May  be  it  has  exhausted  my  inven- 
tive powers.  What  then?  I'm  bounced.  It's 
tough  to  have  to  begin  all  over  again  at  sixty- 
three,  and  me  Boss  of  the  World  if  I  could  only 


312  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

bring  myself  to  boss.  If  I  do  get  bounced  and 
do  get  vexed,  m'aybe  I'll  unbury  it  and  show 
Miss  Minnely  what  it  can  do.  Well,  good 
evening,  and  thank  you  for  your  interest  and 
advice." 

He  departed  with  the  old,  solemn  unsettled 
look  on  his  honest  Nova  Scotian  countenance. 

Since  that  day  I  have  frequently  seen  Adam, 
but  he  gives  me  no  recognition.  He  goes  about 
with  eyes  on  the  ground,  probably  studying  the 
complicated  and  frightful  situation  of  a  World 
Power  animated  by  liberalism  and  dominated 
by  conscience.  Some  in  the  Blessing  office  tell 
me  that  Miss  Minnely's  disapproving  eye  is 
often  on  her  old  employee.  They  say  she  will 
soon  lift  the  Pusher  over  Adam's  white  head. 

What  will  he  do  then?  I  remember  with 
some  trepidation  the  vague  threat  with  which 
he  left  me.  At  night,  when  a  high  gale  happens 
to  be  blowing,  I  listen  in  wild  surmise  that 
Adam  was  bounced  yesterday,  and  that  the 
slates,  bricks  and  beams  of  the  Family  Bless- 
ing Building  are  hurtling  about  the  suburbs 
as  if  in  signal  that  he  has  liberated  a  large 
specimen  of  the  mysterious  globule  and  em- 
barked, of  necessity,  on  the  woeful  business  of 
bossing  the  world. 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT 


GEORGE  RENWICK  substituted  "limb"  for 
"leg,"  "intoxicated"  for  "drunk,"  and  "under- 
garment" for  "shirt,"  in  "The  Converted  Ring- 
master," a  short-story-of -commerce,  which  he 
was  editing  for  "The  Family  Blessing." 
When  he  should  have  eliminated  all  indecorum 
it  would  go  to  Miss  Minnely,  who  would  "ele- 
vate the  emotional  interest."  She  was  sole 
owner  of  "The  Blessing,"  active  director  of 
each  of  its  multifarious  departments.  Few 
starry  names  rivalled  hers  in  the  galaxy  of 
American  character-builders. 

Unaware  of  limitations  to  her  versatility, 
Miss  Minnely  might  have  dictated  all  the  liter- 
ary contents  of  the  magazine,  but  for  her  acute 
perception  that  other  gifted  pens  should  be 
enlisted.  Hence  many  minor  celebrities  wor- 
shipped her  liberal  cheques,  whilst  her  more 
extravagant  ones  induced  British  titled  person- 
ages to  assuage  the  yearning  of  the  American 
Plain  People  for  some  contact  with  rank. 

Renwick  wrought  his  changes  sardonically, 
applying  to  each  line  a  set  of  touchstones — 

313 


314  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN   STORIES 

"Will  it  please  Mothers?"  "Lady  school- 
teachers?" "Ministers  of  the  Gospel?"  "Miss 
Minnely's  Taste?"  He  had  not  entirely  con- 
verted The  Ringmaster  when  his  door  was 
gently  opened  by  the  Chief  Guide  to  the 
Family  Blessing  Building. 

Mr.  Durley  had  grown  grey  under  solemn 
sense  of  responsibility  for  impressions  which 
visitors  might  receive.  With  him  now  ap- 
peared an  unusually  numerous  party  of  the 
usual  mothers,  spinsters,  aged  good  men,  and 
anxious  children  who  keep  watch  and  ward  over 
"The  Blessing's"  pages,  in  devotion  to  Miss 
Minnely's  standing  editorial  request  that  "sub- 
scribers will  faithfully  assist  the  Editors  with 
advice,  encouragement,  or  reproof."  The 
Mature,  with  true  American  gentleness,  let  the 
Young  assemble  nearest  the  open  door.  All 
necks  craned  toward  Ren  wick.  Because  Mr. 
Durley's  discourse  to  so  extensive  a  party  was 
unusually  loud,  Renwick  heard,  for  the  first 
time,  what  the  Chief  Guide  was  accustomed  to 
murmur  at  his  threshold:  "De-ar  friends,  the 
gentleman  we  now  have  the  satisfaction  of  be- 
holding engaged  in  a  sitting  posture  at  his  edi- 
torial duties,  is  Mr.  George  Hamilton  Renwick, 
an  American  in  every ." 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       315 

"He  looks  like  he  might  be  English,"  ob- 
served a  matron. 

Mr.  Durley  took  a  steady  look  at  Renwick: 
"He  is  some  red  complected,  Lady,  but  I  guess 
it's  only  he  is  used  to  out  of  doors."  He  re- 
sumed his  customary  drone: — "Mr.  Renwick, 
besides  he  is  American  in  every  fibre  of  his 
being,  is  a  first  rate  general  purpose  editor, 
and  also  a  noted  authority  on  yachting,  boat- 
ing, canoeing,  rowing,  swimming,  and  every 
kind  of  water  amusements  of  a  kind  calculated 
to  build  up  character  in  subscribers.  Mr. 
George  Hamilton  Renwick's  engagement  by 
'The  Family  Blessing'  exclusively  is  a  recent 
instance  of  many  evidences  that  Miss  Minnely, 
the  Sole  Proprietress,  spares  no  expense  in 
securing  talented  men  of  genius  who  are  like- 
wise authorities  on  every  kind  of  specialty  in- 
teresting, instructive,  and  improving  to  first- 
class  respectable  American  families.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  and  de-ar  children,  girls,  and 
youths,  we  will  now  pass  on  to  Room  Number 
Sixteen,  and  behold  Mr.  Caliphas  C.  Cummins, 
the  celebrated  author  and  authority  on  Oriental 
and  Scriptural  countries.  Mr.  Cummins  is  spe- 
cially noted  as  the  author  of  'Bijah's  Bicycle  in 
Babylonia,'  'A  Girl  Genius  at  Galilee,'  and 


316  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

many  first-class  serials  published  exclusively  in 

'The  Family  Blessing.'    He  may- 
Mr.  Durley  softly  closed  Renwick' s  door. 
The  Improving  Editor,  now  secluded,  stared 

wrathfully    for    some    moments.      Then    he 

laughed,  seized  paper;  and  wrote  in  capitals  :— 

"When  the  editor  in  this  compartment  is  to  be  ex- 
hibited, please  notify  him  by  knocking  on  this  door 
before  opening  it.  He  will  then  rise  from  his  sitting 
posture,  come  forward  for  inspection,  and  turn  slowly 
round  three  times,  if  a  mother,  a  school  teacher,  or  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel  be  among  the  visiting  sub- 
scribers." 

Renwick  strode  to  his  door.  While  pinning 
the  placard  on  its  outside  he  overheard  the  con- 
cluding remarks  of  Mr.  Durley  on  Mr.  Cum- 
mins, whose  room  was  next  in  the  long  corridor: 
"Likewise  talented  editor  of  the  Etiquette  De- 
partment and  the  Puzzle  Department.  Mr. 
Cummins,  Sir,  seven  lady  teachers  from  the 
State  of  Maine  are  now  honouring  us  in  this 
party." 

Renwick  stood  charmed  to  listen.  He  heard 
the  noted  author  clack  forward  to  shake  hands 
all  round,  meantime  explaining  in  thin,  high, 
affable  volubility:  "My  de-ar  friends,  you  have 
the  good  fortune  to  behold  me  in  the  very  act 
of  composing  my  new  serial  of  ten  Chapters, 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       317 

for  'The  Blessing'  exclusively,  entitled  'Jehu 
and  Jerusha  in  Jerusalem,'  being  the  expe- 
riences of  a  strenuous  New  England  brother 
and  sister  in  the  Holy  Land,  where  our  Lord 
innogerated  the  Christian  religion,  now,  sad  to 
say,  under  Mohammetan  subjection.  In  this 
tale  I  am  incorporating  largely  truthful  inci- 
dents of  my  own  and  blessed  wife's  last  visit  to 
the  Holy  Places  where— 

Renwick  slammed  his  door.  He  flung  his 
pen  in  a  transport  of  derision.  Rebounding 
from  his  desk,  it  flew  through  an  open  window, 
perhaps  to  fall  on  some  visitor  to  "The  Bless- 
ing's" lawn.  He  hastened  to  look  down.  No- 
body was  on  gravel  path  or  bench  within  pos- 
sible reach  of  the  missile.  Renwick,  relieved, 
mused  anew  on  the  singularities  of  the  scene. 

The  vast  "Blessing"  Building  stands  amid  a 
city  block  devoted  largely  to  shaven  turf,  flower 
beds,  grassed  mounds,  and  gravel  paths.  It  is 
approached  from  the  street  by  a  broad  walk 
which  bifurcates  at  thirty  yards  from  the 
"Richardson"  entrance,  to  surround  a  turfed 
truncated  cone,  from  which  rises  a  gigantic, 
severely  draped,  female  figure.  It  is  that 
bronze  of  Beneficence  which,  in  the  words  of  the 
famous  New  England  sculptress,  Miss  Angela 


318  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

C.  Amory  Pue,  "closely  features  Miss  Martha 
Minnely  in  her  grand  early  womanhood."  In 
the  extensive  arms  of  the  Beneficence  a  bronze 
volume  so  slants  that  spectators  may  read  on  its 
back,  in  gilt  letters,  "THE  FAMILY  BLESS- 
ING." Prettily  pranked  out  in  dwarf  marginal 
plants  on  the  turfy  cone  these  words  are  pyr- 
amided: "LovE.  HEAVEN.  BENEFICENCE. 
THE  LATEST  FASHIONS.  MY  COUNTRY,  'TIS 
or  THEE." 

Not  far  from  the  statue  slopes  a  great 
grassed  mound  which  displays  still  more  con- 
spicuously in  "everlastings,"  "THE  FAMILY 
BLESSING.  CIRCULATION  1915,  1,976,709. 
MONTHLY.  COME  UNTO  ME  ALL  YE  WEARY 
AND  HEAVILY  LADEN.  Two  DOLLARS  A 
YEAR." 

The  scheme  ever  puzzled  Renwick.  Had 
some  demure  humour  thus  addressed  advertise- 
ments as  if  to  the  eternal  stars?  Or  did  they 
proceed  from  a  pure  simplicity  of  commercial 
taste?  From  this  perennial  problem  he  was 
diverted  by  sharp  rapping  at  his  door.  Durley 
again?  But  the  visitor  was  Mr.  Joram  B. 
Buntstir,  veteran  among  the  numerous  editors 
of  "The  Blessing,"  yet  capable  of  jocularities. 
He  appeared  perturbed. 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       319 

"Renwick,  you  are  rather  fresh  here,  and  I 
feel  so  friendly  to  you  that  I'd  hate  to  see  you 
get  into  trouble  unwarned.  Surely  you  can't 
wish  Miss  Minnely  to  see  that" 

"What?  Oh,  the  placard!  That's  for  Dur- 
ley.  He  must  stop  exhibiting  me." 

"Mr.  Durley  won't  understand.  Anyway, 
he  couldn't  stop  without  instructions  from  Miss 
Minnely.  He  will  take  the  placard  to  her  for 
orders.  You  do  not  wish  to  hurt  Miss  Min- 
nely's  feelings,  I  am  sure."  Mr.  Buntstir 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Bah — Miss  Minnely's  feelings  can't  be  so 
tender  as  all  that !" 

"No,  eh?    Do  you  know  her  so  thoroughly?" 

"I  don't  know  her  at  all.  I've  been  here 
three  months  without  once  seeing  Miss  Min- 
nely. Is  she  real?  Half  the  time  I  doubt  her 
existence." 

"You  get  instructions  from  her  regularly." 

"I  get  typewritten  notes,  usually  volumin- 
ous, signed  'M.  Minnely,'  twice  a  week.  But 
the  Business  Manager,  or  Miss  Heartly,  may 
dictate  them,  for  all  I  know." 

"Pshaw!  Miss  Minnely  presides  in  seclu- 
sion. Her  private  office  has  a  street  entrance. 
She  seldom  visits  the  Departments  in  office 


320  OLD    MAN    SAVABIN    STORIES 

hours.  Few  of  her  staff  know  her  by  sight. 
She  saves  time  by  avoiding  personal  interviews. 
But  she  keeps  posted  on  everybody's  work.  I 
hope  you  may  not  have  to  regret  learning  how 
very  real  Miss  Minnely  can  be.  She  took  me 
in  hand,  once,  eight  years  ago.  I  have  been 
careful  to  incur  no  more  discipline  since — kind 
as  she  was.  If  she  sees  your  placard— 

"Well,  what?" 

"Well,  she  can  be  very  impressive.  I  fear 
your  offer  to  turn  round  before  visitors  may 
bring  you  trouble." 

"I  am  looking  for  trouble.  I'm  sick  and 
tired  of  this  life  of  intellectual  shame." 

"Then  quit!"  snapped  Buntstir,  pierced. 
"Be  consistent.  Get  out.  Sell  your  sneers  at 
a  great  established  publication  to  some  pam- 
phlet periodical  started  by  college  boys  for  the 
regeneration  of  Literature.  Don't  jeer  what 
you  live  by.  That  is  where  intellectual  shame 
should  come  in." 

"You  are  right.  A  man  should  not  gibe  his 
job.  I  must  quit.  The  'Blessing'  is  all  right 
for  convinced  devotees  of  the  mawkish.  But  if 
a  man  thinks  sardonically  of  his  daily  work, 
that  damns  the  soul." 

"It  may  be  an  effect  of  the  soul  trying  to  save 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       321 

itself,"  said  Buntstir,  mollified.  "Anyway, 
Renwick,  remember  your  trouble  with  'The  Re- 
flex.' Avoid  the  name  of  a  confirmed  quitter. 
Stay  here  till  you  can  change  to  your  profit. 
Squealing  won't  do  us  any  good.  A  little  grain 
of  literary  conscience  ought  not  to  make  you 
talk  sour.  It's  cynical  to  satirize  our  bread 
and  butter — imprudent,  too." 

"That's  right.  I'll  swear  off,  or  clear  out. 
Lord,  how  I  wish  I  could.  My  brain  must  rot 
if  I  don't.  'The  Blessing's' 'emotional'!  Oh, 
Buntstir,  the  stream  of  drivel!  And  to  live  by 
concocting  it  for  trustful  subscribers.  Talk  of 
the  sin  of  paregoricking  babies!" 

"Babies  take  paregoric  because  they  like  it. 
Pshaw,  Renwick,  you're  absurdly  sensitive. 
Writing-men  must  live,  somehow — usually  by 
wishy-washiness.  Unpleasant  work  is  the  com- 
mon lot  of  mankind.  Where's  your  title  to  ex- 
emption ?  Really,  you're  lucky.  Miss  Minnely 
perceives  zest  in  your  improvements  of  copy. 
She  says  you  are  naturally  gifted  with  'The 
Blessing's'  taste." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Buntstir!" 

"She  did — Miss  Heartly  told  me  so.  And 
yet — if  she  sees  that  placard — no  one  can  ever 
guess  what  she  may  do  in  discipline.  You  can't 


322  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

wish  to  be  bounced,  dear  boy,  with  your  family 
to  provide  for.  Come,  you've  blown  off  steam. 
Take  the  placard  off  your  door." 

"All  right.  I  will.  But  Miss  Minnely  can't 
bounce  me  without  a  year's  notice.  That's 
how  I  engaged." 

"A  year's  notice  to  quit  a  life  of  intellectual 
shame !" 

"Well,  it  is  one  thing  to  jump  out  of  the 
window,  and  another  to  be  bounced.  I 
wouldn't  stand  that." 

Buntstir  laughed.  "I  fancy  I  see  you,  you 
sensitive  Cuss,  holding  on,  or  jumping  off  or 
doing  anything  contra  to  Miss  Minnely's  inten- 
tion." He  went  to  the  door.  "Hello,  where's 
the  placard?"  he  cried,  opening  it. 

"Gone!"  Renwick  sprang  up. 

"Gone,  sure.  No  matter  how.  It  is  already 
in  Miss  Minnely's  hands.  Well,  I  told  you  to 
take  it  down  twenty  minutes  ago." 

"Wait,  Buntstir.    What  is  best  to  be  done?" 

"Hang  on  for  developments — and  get  to 
work." 

Buntstir  vanished  as  one  hastens  to  avoid 
infection. 

II 

Renwick  resumed  his  editing  of  "The  Con- 


MISS   MINNELYS   MANAGEMENT          323 

verted  Ringmaster"  with  resolve  to  think  on 
nothing  else.  But,  between  his  eyes  and  the 
manuscript,  came  the  woeful  aspect  of  two 
widows,  his  mother  and  his  sister,  as  they  had 
looked  six  months  earlier,  when  he  threw  up  his 
political  editorship  of  "The  Daily  Reflex"  in 
disgust  at  its  General  Manager's  sudden  re- 
versal of  policy.  His  sister's  baby  toddled  into 
the  vision.  He  had  scarcely  endured  to  watch 
the  child's  uncertain  steps  during  the  weeks 
while  he  wondered  how  to  buy  its  next  month's 
modified  milk.  To  "The  Reflex"  he  could  not 
return,  because  he  had  publicly  burned  his 
boats,  with  the  desperate  valour  of  virtue  con- 
scious that  it  may  weaken  if  strained  by  need 
for  family  food. 

Out  of  that  dangerous  hole  he  had  been  lifted 
by  the  Sole  Proprietress  of  "The  Family  Bless- 
ing." She  praised  his  "public  stand  for  prin- 
ciple" in  a  note  marked  "strictly  confidential," 
which  tendered  him  a  "position."  He  had 
secretly  laughed  at  the  cautious,  amiable  offer, 
even  while  her  laudation  gratified  his  self-im- 
portance. Could  work  on  "The  Blessing"  seem 
otherwise  than  ridiculous  for  one  accustomed 
to  chide  presidents,  monarchs,  bosses,  bankers, 
railway  magnates?  But  it  was  well  paid,  and 


324  OLD    MAN    SAVAEIN    STOEIES 

•seemed  only  too  easy.  The  young  man  did  not 
foresee  for  himself  that  benumbing  of  faculty 
which  ever  punishes  the  writer  who  sells  his 
facility  to  tasks  below  his  ambition.  At  worst 
"The  Blessing"  seemed  harmless.  Nor  could 
his  better  nature  deny  a  certain  esteem  to  that 
periodical  which  affectionate  multitudes  pro- 
claimed to  be  justly  named. 

Renwick,  viewing  himself  once  more  as  a 
recreant  breadwinner,  cursed  his  impetuous 
humour.  But  again  he  took  heart  from  re- 
membrance of  his  engagement  by  the  year,  little 
suspecting  his  impotency  to  hold  on  where 
snubs  must  be  the  portion  of  the  unwanted. 
Twelve  months  to  turn  round  in!  But  after? 
What  if  an  editor,  already  reputed  impractical 
by  "The  Reflex"  party,  should  be  refused  em- 
ployment everywhere,  after  forsaking  "The 
Blessing"  office,  in  which  "positions"  were  no- 
toriously sought  or  coveted  by  hundreds  of  "lit- 
erary" aspirants  to  "soft  snaps"?  So  his  veer- 
ing imagination  whirled  round  that  inferno  into 
which  wage  earners  descend  after  hazarding 
their  livelihood. 

From  this  disquiet  he  sprang  when  his  door 
was  emphatically  knocked.  It  opened.  Mr. 
Durley  reappeared  with  a  throng  closely  re- 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       325 

sembling  the  last,  except  for  one  notable  wide 
lady  in  street  costume  of  Quakerish  gray.  Her 
countenance  seemed  to  Renwick  vaguely  fa- 
miliar. The  fabric  and  cut  of  her  plain  garb 
betokened  nothing  of  wealth  to  the  masculine 
eye,  but  were  regarded  with  a  degree  of  awe 
by  the  other  ladies  present.  She  appeared  ut- 
terly American,  yet  unworldly,  in  the  sense  of 
seeming  neither  citified,  suburbanish,  nor  rural. 
The  experienced  placidity  of  her  countenance 
reminded  Renwick  of  a  familiar  composite 
photograph  of  many  matrons  chosen  from 
among  "The  Blessing's"  subscribers. 

"Her  peculiarity  is  that  of  the  perfect  type," 
he  pondered  while  listening  to  Durley's  repeti- 
tion of  his  previous  remarks. 

At  their  close,  he  briskly  said :  "Mr.  Renwick, 
Sir,  Miss  Minnely  wishes  you  to  know  that 
your  kind  offer  is  approved.  We  are  now 
favoured  with  the  presence  of  four  mothers,  six 
lady  teachers,  and  a  minister  of  the  Gospel." 

Renwick  flushed.  His  placard  approved! 
It  promised  that  he  would  come  forward  and 
turn  round  thrice  for  inspection.  Durley  had 
received  instructions  to  take  him  at  his  word! 
Suddenly  the  dilemma  touched  his  facile  hu- 
mour. Explanation  before  so  many  was  impos- 


326  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

sible.  Gravely  he  approached  the  visitors,  held 
out  the  skirts  of  his  sack  coat,  turned  slowly 
thrice,  and  bowed  low  at  the  close. 

The  large  lady  nodded  with  some  reserve. 
Other  spectators  clearly  regarded  the  solemnity 
as  part  of  "The  Blessing's"  routine.  Mr.  Dur- 
ley  resumed  his  professional  drone :—  "We  will 
now  pass  on  to  Room  Number  Sixteen,  and  be- 
hold Mr.  Caliphas  C.  Cummins  in—  Ren- 
wick's  door  closed. 

Then  the  large  lady,  ignoring  the  attractions 
of  Mr.  Cummins,  went  to  the  waiting  elevator, 
and  said  "down." 

Renwick,  again  at  his  desk,  tried  vainly  to 
remember  of  what  or  whom  the  placid  lady  had 
reminded  him.  A  suspicion  that  she  might  be 
Miss  Minnely  fled  before  recollection  of  her 
street  costume.  Still — she  might  be.  If  so — 
had  his  solemnly  derisive  posturing  offended 
her?  She  had  given  no  sign.  How  could  he 
explain  his  placard  to  her?  Could  he  not  truly 
allege  objections  to  delay  of  his  work  by  Dur- 
ley's  frequent  interruptions  ?  He  was  whirling 
with  conjecture  and  indecision  when  four  mea- 
sured ticks  from  a  lead  pencil  came  on  his  outer 
door. 

There  stood  Miss  Heartly,  Acting  Manager 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       327 

of  the  Paper  Patterns  Department.  Her  light 
blue  eyes  beamed  the  confidence  of  one  born 
trustful,  and  confirmd  in  the  disposition  by 
thirty-five  years  of  popularity  at  home,  in 
church,  in  office.  In  stiff  white  collar,  lilac  tie, 
trig  grey  gown,  and  faint,  fading  bloom  of 
countenance,  she  well  represented  a  notable 
latter  day  American  type,  the  Priestess  of 
Business,  one  born  and  bred  as  if  to  endow 
office  existence  with  some  almost  domestic  touch 
of  Puritan  nicety.  That  no  man  might  sanely 
hope  to  disengage  Miss  Heartly  from  devotion 
to  "The  Family  Blessing"  was  as  if  revealed 
by  her  unswerving  directness  of  gaze  in  speech. 

"I  have  called,  Mr.  Renwick,  by  instruction 
of  the  Sole  Proprietress.  Miss  Minnely  wishes 
me,  first,  to  thank  you  for  this." 

It  was  the  placard ! 

Renwick  stared,  unable  to  credit  the  sincerity 
in  her  face  and  tone.  She  must  be  making 
game  of  him  while  she  spoke  in  measured  links, 
as  if  conscientiously  repeating  bits  each  sep- 
arately memorized : 

"Mr.  Renwick— Miss  Minnely  desires  you  to 
know  that  she  has  been  rarely  more  gratified — 
than  by  this  evidence — that  your  self -identifica- 
tion with  'The  Blessing' — is  cordial  and  com- 


328  OLD    MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

plete.  But — Miss  Minnely  is  inclined  to  hope 
— that  your  thoughtful  and  kind  proposal — of 
turning  round  for  inspection — may  be — modi- 
fied— or  improved.  For  instance — if  you 
would  carefully  prepare — of  course  for  revi- 
sion by  her  own  taste — a  short  and  eloquent 
welcoming  discourse — to  visitors — that  could 
be  elevated  to  an  attraction — for  subscribers— 
of  that  she  is  almost,  though  not  yet  quite,  fully 
assured.  Miss  Minnery  presumes,  Mr.  Ren- 
wick,  that  you  have  had  the  pleasure  of — hear- 
ing Mr.  Cummins  welcome  visitors.  Of  course, 
Mr.  Renwick,  Miss  Minnely  would  not  have 
asked  you — but — as  you  have  volunteered — in 
your  cordial  willingness — that  affords  her  an 
opportunity — for  the  suggestion.  But,  Mr. 
Renwick,  if  you  do  not  like  the  idea — then  Miss 
Minnely  would  not  wish — to  pursue  the  sug- 
gestion further."  A  child  glad  to  have  re- 
peated its  lesson  correctly  could  not  have  looked 
more  ingenuous. 

In  her  fair  countenance,  open  as  a  daybook, 
Renwick  could  detect  no  guile.  Her  tone  and 
figure  suggested  curiously  some  flatness,  as  of 
the  Paper  Patterns  of  her  Department.  But 
through  this  mild  deputy  Miss  Minnely  must, 
he  conceived,  be  deriding  him.  With  what 


MISS   MINNELY  S   MANAGEMENT          329 

subtlety  the  messenger  had  been  chosen!  It 
seemed  at  once  necessary  and  impossible  to  ex- 
plain his  placard  to  one  so  guiltless  of  humour. 

"I  hoped  it  might  be  understood  that  I  did 
not  intend  that  placard  to  be  taken  literally, 
Miss  Heartly." 

"Not  literally!"  she  seemed  bewildered. 

"To  be  pointed  at  as  'a  first  class  general 
purpose  editor'  is  rather  too  much,  don't  you 
think?" 

"I  know,  Mr.  Renwick,"  she  spoke  sym- 
pathetically. "It  sort  of  got  onto  your  humil- 
ity, I  presume.  But  Miss  Minnely  thinks  you 
are  first  class,  or  she  would  never  have  in- 
structed Mr.  Durley  to  say  first  class.  That  is 
cordial  to  you,  and  good  business — to  impress 
the  visitors,  I  mean." 

"Miss  Minnely  is  very  appreciative  and  kind. 
But  the  point  is  that  I  did  not  engage  to  be  ex- 
hibited to  flocks  of  gobemouches." 

Miss  Heartly  pondered  the  term.  "Please, 
Mr.  Renwick,  what  are  gobemouches  ?" 

"I  should  have  said  The  Plain  People." 

"Perhaps  there  have  been  rude  ones — not 
subscribers,"  she  said  anxiously. 

"No,  all  have  acted  as  if  reared  on  'The 
Blessing.'  " 


330  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

She  sighed  in  relief — then  exclaimed  in  con- 
sternation:— "Can  Mr.  Durley  have  been— 
rude?"  She  hesitated  to  pronounce  the  dire 
word. 

"Not  at  all,  Miss  Heartly.  I  do  not  blame 
Mr.  Durley  for  exhibiting  us  as  gorillas." 

"But  how  wrong"  There  was  dismay  in  her 
tone.  "Miss  Minnely  has  warned  him  against 
the  least  bit  of  deception." 

"Oh,  please,  Miss  Heartly — I  was  speaking 
figuratively." 

Her  fair  brow  slightly  wrinkled,  her  fingers 
went  nervously  to  her  anxious  lips,  she  looked 
perplexed; — "Figuratively!  If  you  would 
kindly  explain,  Mr.  Renwick.  I  am  not  very 
literary." 

"Do  the  ladies  of  the  Paper  Patterns 
Department  like  to  be  exhibited?"  he  ven- 
tured. 

"Well,  I  could  not  exactly  be  warranted  to 
say  like' — Scripture  has  such  warnings  against 
the  sinfulness  of  vanity.  But  we  are,  of  course, 
cordially  pleased  to  see  visitors — it  is  so  good 
for  the  Subscription  Department." 

"I  see.  And  it  is  not  hard  on  you  individu- 
ally. There  you  are,  a  great  roomful  of  beau- 
tiful, dutiful,  cordial  young  ladies.  You  keep 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       331 

one  another  in  countenance.  But  what  if  you 
were  shown  each  in  a  separate  cage?" 

Her  face  brightened.  "Oh,  now  I  under- 
stand, Mr.  Ren  wick!  You  mean  it  would  be 
nicer  for  the  Editors,  too,  to  be  seen  all  to- 
gether." 

Renwick  sighed  hopelessly.  She  spoke  on 
decisively :  "That  may  be  a  valuable  suggestion, 
Mr.  Renwick."  On  her  pad  she  began  pencil- 
ling shorthand.  "Of  course  I  will  credit  you 
with  it.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  Miss 
Minnely  always  pays  well  for  valuable  sug- 
gestions." She  wrote  intently,  murmuring: 
"But  is  it  practicable?  Let  me  think.  Why, 
surely  practicable!  But  Miss  Minnely  will 
decide.  All  partitions  on  the  Editorial  Flat 
could  be  removed!  Make  it  cool  as  Prize 
Package  or  Financial  Department!"  She 
looked  up  from  her  paper,  glowing  with  enter- 
prise, and  pointed  her  pencil  straight  at  Ren- 
wick. "And  so  impressive!"  She  swept  the 
pencil  in  a  broad  half  circle,  seeing  her  pic- 
ture. "Thirty  Editors  visible  at  one  compre- 
hensive glance !  All  so  literary,  and  busy,  and 
intelligent,  and  cordial!  Fine!  I  take  the  lib- 
erty, temporarily,  of  calling  that  a  first-class 
suggestion,  Mr.  Renwick.  It  may  be  worth 


332  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

hundreds  to  you,  if  Miss  Minnely  values  it. 
It  may  be  forcibly  felt  in  the  Subscription  List 
— if  Miss  Minnely  approves.  It  may  help  to 
hold  many  subscribers  who  try  to  get  away 
after  the  first  year.  I  feel  almost  sure  Miss 
Minnely  will  approve.  I  am  so  glad.  I 
thought  something  important  was  going  to 
come  when  Miss  Minnely  considered  your  pla- 
card so  carefully." 

"But  some  of  the  other  Editors  may  not  wish 
to  be  exhibited  with  the  whole  collection,"  said 
Renwick  gravely.  "For  instance,  consider  Mr. 
Cummins'  literary  rank.  Would  it  gratify  him 
to  be  shown  as  a  mere  unit  among  Editors  of 
lesser  distinction?" 

"You  are  most  fore-thoughtful  on  every 
point,  Mr.  Renwick.  That  is  so  fine .  But  Mr. 
Cummins  is  also  most  devoted.  I  feel  sure  he 
would  cordially  yield,  if  Miss  Minnely  ap- 
proved. I  presume  you  will  wish  me  to  tell  her 
that  you  are  grateful  for  her  kind  message  ?" 

"Cordially  grateful  seems  more  fitting.  Miss 
Heartly — and  I  am — especially  for  her  choice 
of  a  deputy." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Renwick.  I  will  tell  her 
that,  too.  And  may  I  say  that  you  will  be 
pleased  to  adopt  her  suggestion  that  you  dis- 


MISS   MINNELYS    MANAGEMENT          333 

course  a  little  to  visitors,  pending  possible 
changes  in  this  Flat,  instead  of  just  coming  for- 
ward and  turning  around.  Literary  men  are  so 
clever — and — ready."  He  fleetingly  suspected 
her  of  derision. 

"Please  say  that  I  will  reflect  on  Miss  Min- 
nely's  suggestion  with  an  anxious  wish  to  emu- 
late, so  far  as  my  fallen  nature  will  permit,  Miss 
Heartly's  beautiful  devotion  to  'The  Blessing's' 
interests." 

"Oh,  thank  you  again,  so  much,  Mr.  Ren- 
wick."  And  the  fair  Priestess  of  Business 

bowed  graciously  in  good  bye. 

t 

III 

Renwick  sat  dazed.  From  his  earliest  ac- 
quaintance with  "The  Family  Blessing"  he  had 
thought  of  its  famous  Editress  and  Sole  Pro- 
prietress as  one  "working  a  graft"  on  the  Plain 
People  by  consummate  sense  of  the  commercial 
value  of  cordial  cant.  Now  he  had  to  conceive 
of  her  as  perfectly  ingenuous.  Had  she  really 
taken  his  placard  as  one  written  in  good  faith? 
He  remembered  its  sentences  clearly : 

"When  the  editor  in  this  compartment  is  to  be 
exhibited,  please  notify  him  by  knocking  on  this  door 
before  opening  it.  He  will  then  rise  from  his  sitting 


334  OLD    MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

posture,  come  forward  for  inspection,  and  turn  slowly 
around  three  times  if  a  school  teacher,  a  mother,  or  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel  be  among  the  visiting  sub- 
scribers." 

Miss  Minnely  took  that  for  sincere !  Ren  wick 
began  to  regard  "The  Blessing"  as  an  emana- 
tion of  a  soul  so  simple  as  to  be  incapable  of 
recognizing  the  diabolic  element,  derision.  He 
was  conceiving  a  tenderness  for  the  honesty 
which  could  read  his  placard  as  one  of  sincerity. 
How  blessed  must  be  hearts  innocent  of  mock- 
ery! Why  should  he  not  gratify  them  by  dis- 
coursing to  visiting  subscribers?  The  idea 
tickled  his  fancy.  At  least  he  might  amuse 
himself  by  writing  what  would  edify  Durley's 
parties  if  delivered  with  gravity.  He  might 
make  material  of  some  of  Miss  Minnely's 
voluminous  letters  of  instruction  to  himself. 
From  his  pigeon-hole  he  drew  that  file,  in- 
spected it  rapidly,  laughed,  and  culled  as  he 
wrote. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  was  chuckling  over 
the  effusion,  after  having  once  read  its  solem- 
nities aloud  to  himself. 

"Hang  me  if  I  don't  try  it  on  Durley's  next 
party!"  he  was  telling  himself,  when  pencil 
tickings,  like  small  woodpecker  tappings, 


MISS   MINNELYS   MANAGEMENT          335 

came  again  on  his  outer  door.  "Miss  Heartly 
back !  I  will  treat  her  to  it !"  and  he  opened  the 
door,  discourse  in  hand. 

There  stood  the  wide,  wise-eyed,  placid, 
gray-clad  lady! 

"I  am  Miss  Minnely,  Mr.  Renwick.  Very 
pleased  to  introduce  myself  to  a  gentleman 
whose  suggestion  has  pleased  me  deeply."  Her 
wooly  voice  was  as  if  steeped  in  a  syrup  of 
cordial  powers.  Suddenly  he  knew  she  had 
reminded  him  of  Miss  Pue's  gigantic  bronze 
Beneficence. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Minnely.  I  feel  truly 
honoured."  Renwick,  with  some  concealed  tre- 
pidation, bowed  her  to  his  revolving  chair. 

"Mr.  Renwick."  She  disposed  her  ampli- 
tude comfortably;  then  streamed  on  genially 
and  authoritatively,  "You  may  be  gratified  to 
learn  that  I  was  pleased — on  the  whole — by 
your  cordial  demeanour  while — er — revolving 
—not  long  ago — on  the  occasion  of  Mr.  Dur- 
ley's  last  visiting  party.  Only — you  will  per- 
mit me  to  say  this  in  all  kindness — I  did  not 
regard  the — the  display  of — er — form — as  pre- 
cisely adapted.  Otherwise  your  appearance, 
tone,  and  manner  were  eminently  suitable — 
indeed  such  as  mark  you  strongly,  Mr.  Ren- 


336  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

wick,  as  conforming — almost — to  my  highest 
ideal  for  the  conduct  of  Editors  of  'The  Bless- 
ing.' Consequently  I  deputed  Miss  Heartly— 
with  a  suggestion.  She  has  informed  me  of 
your  cordial  willingness,  Mr.  Renwick — hence 
I  am  here  to  thank  you  again — and  instruct. 
Your  short  discourse  to  visitors  will — let  me 
explain — not  only  edify,  but  have  the  effect  of, 
as  it  were,  obviating  any  necessity  for  the — er 
— revolving — and  the  display  of — er — form. 
Now,  you  are  doubtless  aware  that  I  invariably 
edit,  so  to  speak,  every  single  thing  done  on  be- 
half of  our  precious  'Family  Blessing.'  For 
due  performance  of  that  paramount  duty  I 
must  give  account  hereafter.  My  peculiar  gift 
is  Taste — you  will  understand  that  I  mention 
this  fact  with  no  more  personal  vanity  that  if 
I  mentioned  that  I  have  a  voice,  hands,  teeth,  or 
any  other  endowment  from  my  Creator — our 
Creator,  in  fact.  Taste — true  sense  of  what 
our  subscribers  like  on  their  higher  plane.  My 
great  gift  must  be  entitled  to  direct  what  we 
say  to  visitors,  just  as  it  directs  what  'The 
Blessing'  publishes  on  its  story  pages,  its  edi- 
torial columns,  its  advertisements,  letter  heads, 
everything  of  every  kind  done  in  'The  Bless- 
ing's' name.  I  am  thorough.  And  so,  Mr. 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       337 

Renwick,  I  desire  to  hear  your  discourse  be- 
forehand. What  ?  You  have  already  prepared 
it?  Excellent!  Promptitude — there  are  few 
greater  business  virtues !  We  will  immediately 
use  your  draft  as  a  basis  for  further  consulta- 
tion." 

So  imposing  was  her  amiable  demeanour  that 
Renwick  had  no  wish  but  to  comply.  He 
glanced  over  what  he  had  written,  feeling  now 
sure  that  its  mock  gravity  would  seem  nowise 
sardonic  to  Miss  Minnely. 

"In  preparing  these  few  words,"  he  re- 
marked, "I  have  borrowed  liberally  from  your 
notes  of  instruction  to  me,  Miss  Minnely." 

"Very  judicious.  Pray  give  me  the  plea- 
sure." 

He  tendered  the  draft. 

"But  no,  please  deliver  it."  She  put  away 
the  paper.  Suppose  me  to  be  a  party  of  our 
de-ar  visiting  subscribers.  I  will  stand  here, 
you  there.  Now  do  not  hesitate  to  be  audible, 
Mr.  Renwick."  She  beamed  as  a  Brobdig- 
nagian  child  at  a  new  game. 

Renwick,  quick  to  all  humours,  took  position, 
and  began  with  unction:  "Dear  friends,  dear 
visitors " 

She  interrupted  amiably: — "De-ar  friends, 


338  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN   STORIES 

de-ar  visitors.  Make  two  syllables  of  the  de-ar. 
The  lingering  is  cordial  in  effect.  I  have  ob- 
served that  carefully — de-ar  softens  hearts. 
Dwell  on  the  word — dee-ar — thus  you  will 
cause  a  sense  of  affectionate  regard  to  cling  to 
visitors'  memories  of  'The  Blessing's'  editorial 
staff.  You  understand,  Mr.  Renwick?" 

He  began  again:  "De-ar  friends,  de-ar  vis- 
itors, de-ar  mothers,  de-ar  teachers,"  but  again 
she  gently  expostulated,  holding  up  a  fat  hand 
to  stop  his  voice. 

"Please,  Mr.  Renwick — no,  I  think  not — it 
might  seem  invidious  to  discriminate  by  speci- 
fying some  before  others.  All  alike  are  our 
de-ar  friends  and  visitors." 

"De-ar  friends,  de-ar  visitors,"  Renwick  cor- 
rected his  paper,  "I  cannot  hope  to  express  ade- 
quately to  you  my  feelings  of  delight  in  being 
introduced  to  your  notice  as  a  first  class  general 
purpose  editor,  and  eminent  authority  on 

She  graciously  interposed: — "It  might  be 
well  to  pencil  this  in,  Mr.  Renwick,  'introduced 
to  you  by  our  de-ar  colleague,  Mr.  Durley,  the 
most  experienced  of  our  guides  to  the  "Family 
Blessing"  Building,  as  general  purpose  editor, 
etc.'  That  would  impress,  as  hinting  at  our 
corps  of  guides,  besides  uplifting  the  rank  of 


MISS   MINNELY  S    MANAGEMENT          339 

our  valued  colleague,  Mr.  Durley,  and  by  con- 
sequence 'The  Blessing,'  through  the  respectful 
mention  made  of  one  of  our  more  humble  em- 
ployees. Elevate  the  lowly,  and  you  elevate 
all  the  superior  classes — that  is  a  sound  Amer- 
ican maxim.  In  business  it  is  by  such  fine  at- 
tention to  detail  that  hearts  and  therefore  sub- 
scribers are  won.  But,  Mr.  Renwick,  nothing 
could  be  better  than  your  'I  cannot  hope  to  ex- 
press adequately  my  feelings  of  delight,'  etc. — 
that  signifies  cordial  emotion — it  is  very  good 
business,  indeed." 

Sincerity  was  unclouded  in  her  gaze.  He 
pencilled  in  her  amendment,  and  read  on: — 
"and  eminent  authority  on  water  amusements 
of  a  character  to  build  up  character  in  first-class 
respectable  American  families." 

"Very  good — I  drilled  Mr.  Durley  in  that," 
she  put  in  complacently. 

"Dear  friends,"  he  resumed. 

"De-ar,"  she  reminded  him. 

"De-ar  friends,  you  may  naturally  desire  to 
be  informed  of  the  nature  of  the  duties  of  a 
general  purpose  editor,  therefore " 

"Let  me  suggest  again,  Mr.  Renwick. 
Better  say  'Dear  friends,  closely  associated  with 
"The  Family  Blessing,"  as  all  must  feel  who 


340  OLD   MAN   SAVARIN    STORIES 

share  the  privilege  of  maintaining  it,  you  will 
naturally  desire  to  be  informed/  etc.  Don't 
you  agree,  Mr.  Ren  wick?  It  is  well  to  neglect 
no  opportunity  for  deepening  the  sense  of  our 
de-ar  subscribers  that  the  'Blessing'  is  a  priv- 
ilege to  their  households.  I  do  everything  pos- 
sible to  make  our  beloved  ones  feel  that  they 
own  'The  Blessing,'  as  in  the  highest  sense 
they  do.  They  like  that.  It  is  remunerative, 
also." 

Renwick  jotted  in  the  improvement,  and 
read  on:  "A  general  purpose  editor  of  'The 
Blessing'  is  simply  one  charged  with  promoting 
the  general  purpose  of  'The  Blessing.'  To  ex- 
plain what  that  is  I  cannot  do  better  than  em- 
ploy the  words  of  the  Sole  Proprietress,  Miss 
Minnely  herself,  and ." 

The  lady  suggested,  " I  cannot  do  so  well  as 
to  employ  the  words  of — it  is  always  effective 
to  speak  most  respectfully  of  the  absent  Pro- 
prietress— that  touches  their  imagination  fa- 
vourably. It  is  good  business." 

"I  appreciate  it,  Miss  Minnely.  And  now  I 
venture  to  adapt,  verbatim,  parts  of  your  notes 
to  me." 

"It  was  forethoughtful  to  preserve  them,  Mr. 
Renwick.  I  am  cordially  pleased." 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT       341 

He  read  on  more  oratorically : — "De-ar 
friends,  'The  Blessing'  has  a  Mission,  and  to 
fulfil  that  Mission  it  must,  first  of  all,  enter- 
tain its  subscribers  on  their  higher  plane.  This 
cannot  be  done  by  stimulating  in  them  any 
latent  taste  for  coarse  and  inelegant  laughter, 
but  by  furnishing  entertainingly  the  whole- 
some food  from  which  mental  pabulum  is  ab- 
sorbed and  mental  growth  accomplished." 

"Excellent!    My  very  own  words." 

"The  varieties  of  this  entertaining  pabulum 
must  be  conscientiously  prepared,  and  admin- 
istered in  small  quantities  so  that  each  can  be 
assimilated  unconsciously  by  Youth  and  Age 
without  mental  mastication.  Mind  is  not  Char- 
acter, and " 

"How  true.  Character-building  publica- 
tions must  never  be  addressed  to  mere  Mind/' 

"The  uplifting  of  the  Mind,  or  Intellect," 
Renwick  read  on,  "is  not  the  general  purpose 
of  'The  Family  Blessing.'  It  is  by  the  Liter- 
ature of  the  Heart  that  Character  is  uplifted. 
Therefore  a  general  purpose  editor  of  'The 
Blessing'  must  ever  seek  to  maintain  and  to  pre- 
sent the  truly  cordial.  That  is  what  most 
widely  attracts  and  pleases  all  these  sections  of 
the  great  American  people  who  are  uncor- 


342  OLD   MAN   SAVAKIN   STOKIES 

rupted  by  worldly  and  literary  associations 
which  tend  to  canker  the  Soul  with  cynicism." 
"I  remember  my  glow  of  heart  in  writing 
those  inspiring,  blessed,  and  inspired  words!" 
she  exclaimed.  "Moreover,  they  are  true. 
Now,  I  think  that  is  about  enough,  Mr.  Ren- 
wick.  Visitors  should  never  be  too  long  de- 
tained by  a  single  attraction.  Let  me  advise 
you  to  memorize  the  discourse  carefully.  It  is 
cordial.  It  is  impressive.  It  is  informative  of 
'The  Blessing's'  ideal.  It  utters  my  own 
thoughts  in  my  own  language.  It  is  admirably 
adapted  to  hold  former  subscribers,  and  to  con- 
firm new.  All  is  well."  She  pondered  silently 
a  few  moments.  "Now,  Mr.  Renwick,  I  would 
be  strictly  just.  The  fact  that  an  editor,  and 
one  of  those  not  long  gathered  to  our  happy 
company,  has  suggested  and  devoted  himself 
to  this  novel  attraction,  will  have  noblest  effect 
in  rousing  our  colleagues  of  every  Department 
to  emulative  exertion.  Once  more,  I  thank  you 
cordially.  But  the  Sole  Proprietress  of  the  re- 
munerative 'Blessing'  holds  her  place  in  trust 
for  all  colleagues,  and  she  is  not  disposed  to 
retire  with  mere  thanks  to  one  who  has  identi- 
fied himself  so  effectually  with  her  and  its 
ideals.  Mr.  Renwick,  your  honorarium — your 


MISS  MINNELY'S  MANAGEMENT        343 

weekly  pay  envelope,"  again  she  paused  reflec- 
tively, "it  will  hereafter  rank  you  with  our  very 
valued  colleague,  Mr.  Caliphas  C.  Cummins 
himself!  No — no-no,  Mr.  Ren  wick — do  not 
thank  me — thank  your  happy  inspiration — 
thank  your  cordial  devotion — thank  your  Taste 
— thank  your  natural,  innate  identification,  in 
high  ideals,  with  me  and  'The  Family  Bless- 
ing.' As  for  me — it  is  for  me  to  thank  you — 
and  I  do  so,  again,  cordially,  cordially,  cor- 
dially !"  She  beamed,  the  broad  embodiment  of 
Beneficence,  in  going  out  of  the  room. 

Renwick  long  stared,  as  one  dazed,  at  the 
story  of  "The  Converted  Ringmaster."  It  re- 
lated in  minute  detail  the  sudden  reformation 
of  that  sinful  official.  The  account  of  his  rapid 
change  seemed  no  longer  improbable  nor  maw- 
kish. Any  revolution  in  any  mind  might  occur, 
since  his  own  had  been  so  swiftly  hypnotized 
into  sympathy  with  Miss  Minnely  and  her 
emanation  "The  Blessing."  How  generous  she 
was !  Grateful  mist  was  in  his  eyes,  emotion  for 
the  safety  of  the  widows  and  the  orphan  whose 
bread  he  must  win. 

Yet  the  derisive  demon  which  sat  always 
close  to  his  too  sophisticated  heart  was  already 
gibing  him  afresh: — "You  stand  engaged,"  it 


344  OLD   MAN    SAVARIN    STORIES 

sneered,  "as  assistant  ringmaster  to  Durley's 
exhibition  of  yourself!" 

New  perception  of  Miss  Minnely  and  Miss 
Heartly  rose  in  his  mind.  Could  mortal  women 
be  really  as  simple  as  those  two  ladies  had 
seemed?  Might  it  not  be  they  had  managed 
him  with  an  irony  as  profound  as  the  ingenu- 
ousness they  had  appeared  to  evince? 


